The poems of Leopardi

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Tfdl y^V/.si

THE

to

POEMS OF LEOPARDI.

«

By the same Author,

THE FATAL RING

(a tragedy)

I>RIOH 2/e-

REMINGTON AND COMPANY, LIMITED.
LONDON AND SYDNEY.

THE

POEMS OF LEOPARDI

Translated front the Italian

BY

FRANCIS HENRY CLIFFE.

REMINGTON and Co., Limited,
LONDON AND SYDNEY.

MDgCCXCIII.

All Rights Reserved*

HARVARP COLLEGE LIBRARY
H. NELSON GAY

RISORGIMENTO COLLECTION

COOLIDGE FUND

1931

/

\

. \

^

\ ^'

>rJ

LIFE OF LEOPARDI.

Giacomo Leopardi, the greatest Italian poet of the
Nineteenth Century, was , born at Recanati, a town of
the March of Ancona, on the twenty-ninth of June,
1798 ; the eldest son of Count Monaldo Leopardi, and
Adelaide, his wife, daughter of the Marquis Antici. He
had four brothers and one sister — Paolina. His father
possessed a splendid library, and was a man of learning
and literary tastes, appearing himself as an author in
prose and verse.

Recanati is situated on an eminence in the Appenines,
not far from Ancona and the celebrated shrine of
Loreto ; and as a biographer of our poet says : ** Its
natural beauties are superb, and the genius of its great
son has made them incomparable." Up to the age of
twenty-four Leopardi did not leave his native place.
The constant sight of so lovely a landscape, bordered in
the distance by the Adriatic, contributed in no slight
measure to give him that exquisite taste and sympathy
for nature, for which he is unique among the poets of
his country.

He, very early, gave proofs of extraordinary ability.
Of modern languages, he knew — besides his own —
English, French, German, and Spanish. His knowledge
of Greek and Latin is proved by his philological works ;
and at the age of fourteen, his intimate acquaintance
with Rabbinical literature astonished some learned Jews

B

2 Life of Leopardi.

of Ancona. But his industry was fatal to himself. As
a child he seems to have enjoyed good health ; but from
the age of sixteen to twenty-one his form became bent
and his constitution weaker and weaker ; and from the
latter date, his life was one series of infirmities.
v/ The deepest melancholy took possession of his mind.
His imagination was of intense strength, but it served
only to conjure up the gloomiest visions. He conceived
a morbid hatred of Recanati, hatred uttered in
immortal verse in the " Ricordanze." Though surrounded
^y those he loved, and living in a handsome style in his
father's house, life became unendurable to him. He
conceived a wild idea of flight, and actually wrote a
letter to his father, explaining his motives for so doing.
But happily the scheme was abandoned, and the letter
never delivered, although it was preserved by his brother
Carlo and published some years ago. This letter was
written in July, 1819. He complains of the little liberty
that was allowed him ; of the dreadful monotony of life at
Recanati, of the little opportunity he had of exercising his
N talents to his future advantage ; and of the sufferings
inflicted upon him by his ** strange imagination " in the
absence of all pleasure and recreation.

This last complaint was certainly well-founded. If
ever man required distraction and amusement, it was
Leopardi. With his self- harassing mind, his melancholy»
his delicacy of health, solitude was to him the worst
of evils. Change might have done him some good»
but change was not to come for another three years, and
when it came, it was too late.

In the course of 18 19, to his other miseries was added
that of failing sight, in consequence of overstudy. He
was obliged to pass nearly twelve months without
reading or writing ; and during this period he began to
meditate on the problems of life, laying the foundation
of the gloomy philosophy which was to inspire all his
future productions.

Two years previously he had begun to correspond with
the celebrated writer, Pietro Giordani, a man of brilliant

Life of Leopardi, 3

intellect and generous character, who became immediately
his intense admirer and devoted friend ; and who spoke
and wrote of him in terms that might then have seemed
extravagant, but which were fully justified by the event.
Our poet published, among other works of less importance,
translations of passages from the "Odyssey," and an
essay on the ** Popular Errors of the Ancients."

But works of greater value, though of smaller
dimensions, were soon to follow. At the age of
twenty he published the " Ode to Italy " and the
" Poem on the Monument of Dante ; " and, two years
later, one of his master-pieces, the "Ode to Angelo
Mai." It is sad to relate that Mai in later years, instead
of being grateful to the poet for addressing him in sublime
verse, depreciated his learning, and coolly appropriated
the emendations to an ancient Greek author, which had
been communicated to him by the too-confiding Leopardi.
Indeed, our poet showed himself in Greek more than a
match for that celebrated scholar.

The winter at Recanati being cold and windy, his
parents were at last persuaded to give him leave to go to
Rome in November, 1822, hoping the milder climate
would produce a beneficial effect.

On arriving in Rome, he wrote to his brother Carlo,
confessing that all the marvels of that city had already
palled upon him, and that his melancholy, instead of
diminishing, was increasing. Nor did this impression
vanish with time. He tells his sister Paolina that the
most stupid person in Recanati had more sense than the
wisest Roman. The frivolity of society disgusted him,
and even the grandeur of the public buildings wrought a
disagreeable effect upon his mind. He made, however,
some pleasant and agreeable acquaintances, among
others, the historian Niebuhr, at that time Prussian
Ambassador to the Vatican. Niebuhr conceived the
highest admiration for his talents, and spoke of him in terms
of the warmest eulogy to Cardinal Consalvi, Secretary
of State to Pius VII. The Cardinal offered him rapid
promotion on condition of his entering the priesthood ;

B— 1-2

4 Life of Leopardi,

but not feeling the vocation, Leopardi was too conscien-
tious to do so. For his own prosperity this refusal was
unfortunate ; but we must approve the motives that
prompted it, and, indeed, we could scarcely picture to
ourselves the author of " Amore e Morte " in the garb of
a Monsignor. Pius VII. died a few months later, and
Consalvi retired from the direction of public affairs. So
favourable an opportunity never returned. Niebuhr
offered our poet an appointment in Prussia ; but he
declined it, dreading the long journey and the rigorous
climate of Berlin. His greatest pleasure consisted in
receiving letters from home, and when his health
permitted, in pursuing his studies in the Vatican library.
The literary society of Rome was not congenial, its
exclusive devotion to antiquarian minutiae seemed to him
both tedious and trifling.

In May, 1823, he returned to Recanati as ailing as
when he left it, and life appeared to him more ** weary,
stale, flat and unprofitable " than before. He had hoped,
as he says in the " Ricordanze," that beyond the
"azure mountains" bounding his native horizon, a
world of imknown felicity extended ; he had explored it,
and found nothing but vanity and affliction of spirit.

But as years advanced, his genius was becoming more
mature, his thoughts more profound, his style more
beautiful. In 1824 he published, at Bologna, the first
edition of his " Canti, S containing the three poems
already mentioned, and seven others, of which the last
is that entitled "Alia Sua Donna," which is, in the
present arrangement of his poems, the eighteenth, its
former place being now occupied by the " Primo Amore."
These splendid verses show his genius in its full
meridian.

Two years had elapsed since his return from Rome
when he received an offer from the Milanese publisher,
Stella, to undertake an edition of the complete works of
Cicero, and to reside with him whilst engaged on this
task. He accepted the invitation readily, and started in
July, 1825, staying at Bologna for a month on the way,

Life of Leopardi. 5

during the great heat. Bologna he liked more than any
other town he had yet seen, and he had some agree-
able friends, amongst others, the devoted Giordani.
When he arrived in Milan there were too many
gaieties to please him, and he longed to return to
Bologna. He did so towards the end of September, and
stayed in Bologna until November of the following year,
excepting a short trip to Ravenna. During this period,
he was occupied with the edition of Cicero, translations
from the Greek, and a commentary on Petrarch. But
the pleasure he took in Bologna did not last long ; the
cold winter tried him, and he began to regret the liveli-
ness and hospitality of Milan.

Always wretched at Recanati, he still, by an amiable
contradiction of sentiment, when absent, pined for home ;
and in November, 1826, his family had him again in
their midst, although he was so enfeebled that he was
obliged to make the journey by short stages. It would
appear that during his sojourn at Bologna he had not
been insensible to the attractions of love, but love could /
be for him nothing but a source of torment ; and, as his/
first return home was signalised by the wreck of hope,
so was his second by the blighting of affection. He
seemed like the hero of the " Pilgrim's Progress,*' to be
writhing in the grasp of Giant Despair ; and from the
day of his arrival, till his departure in the following
April, he was not once seen in the streets of Recanati.

He sought a remedy for his sorrows by returning to
Bologna, but in vain ; and, on the twentieth of June, 1827,
he removed to Florence, where he enjoyed the society of
Giordani ; but an acute inflammation of the eyes
confined him to the house, and long prevented him from
inspecting the treasures of art that overflow the Tuscan
city. At this epoch he published his "Operette
Morali," a series of dialogues and essays, offering,
according to the best critics of his country, the most
perfect specimen of prose in the Italian language.

In the autumn he somewhat recovered, and wishing
to continue the improvement, he avoided the cold of

6 Life of Leopardi.

\

Florence by wintering at Pisa. Florence, as a residence,
he did not like, but with Pisa he was enchanted. The
improvement, however, was but slight, and his nerves
were in such a weak state that any sort of application
or study was out of the question. In April, 1828, he
was able to apply himself again to composition and
seemed to revive ; when the death of one of his brothers
afflicted him profoundly. From June to November he
was again in Florence, but his yearning for home made
itself felt after the recent bereavement.

He started on the twelfth of November for Recanati,
in the company of a young man, who was afterwards
known to fame as Vincenzo Gioberti. He found his
birthplace darkened by the shadow of death, that seemed
to him the herald of his own. His former gloom
returned, but in a more terrible shape; he saw only
annihilation before him, and took the last glance of life
in his superb " Ricordanze,*' the most richly coloured, the
most deeply pathetic, the most unfathomably profound
of all his poems.

In 1830, his Florentine friends, wishing to have him
once more in their midst, urged his return to their city.
Accordingly, in May, he took leave of his ^mily^-little
thinking he should never see them again. It w^uid-^De
curious to enquire what made him so wretched when at
home, and yet, when absent, always longing to be there.
His brother Carlo said many years later to Prospero
Viani, the editor of his correspondence, that none of his
poems written elsewhere had the beauty of those
composed at Recanati ; and when Viani mentioned the
"Ginestra,'* Carlo replied that even the "Ginestra"
was conceived at Recanati. Some biographers say the
" Risorgimento " was written at Pisa, but Ranieri, who
was probably well informed, sayis it was written at ,
Recanati, and this assertion is, I think, borne out by '
internal evidence. The " Canto Notturno " seems also^.
to have been written in his birthplace. Thus Carlo's*
statement would be correct. It is observable that the
poems subsequent to the " Canto Notturno," with the

Life of Leopardi. 7

exception of " Aspasia " and the little poem " To
Himself," have an air of languor foreign to his earlier
productions. This languor is perceptible even in the
sublime *' Ginestra," and it is not absent in passages
of the " Pensiero Dominante," " Amore e Morte," and
the long mock-heroic " Paralipomeni." The repose,
sepulchral as it may have seemed to him, of Recanati,
and the exquisite beauty of its scenery, were conducive
to the exercise of the imagination. Nor must we forget
that he spoke of other places — except Pisa and Bologna —
with equal bitterness. The climate seems really to have
worked havoc on his delicate frame. He allowed its
inhabitants only one merit, that of speaking Italian with
purity and elegance.

His stay in Florence, which extended from May, 1830,
to October of the following year, was made memorable
by the publication of another edition of his ** Canti,"
with many poems added to the former ten, and with a
dedicatory epistle to his ** Tuscan friends." At this
period he made the acquaintance of Ranieri, a Neapolitan
with literary talents, who was to be his intimate friend
and future biographer.

In October, 1831, he suddenly vanished from Florence
and appeared in Rome ; why, none could tell. He
wrote to his brother Carlo on the subject, begging him
not to ask for the details of a long romance, full of pain
and anguish. It is conjectured that he fixed his
affections on an unworthy object and was bitterly un-
deceived. Whatever the circumstances may have been,
it is certain that in Rome his mental misery, always
great, rose to an intolerable height, and, sad to relate,
he for a time harboured thoughts of self-destruction K
But the strength of his character overcame the strength
of his affliction, and he gradually softened to a serener
mood. At this tima the Florentine Academia della
Crusea elected him a member — a worthy tribute to his
genius and eloquence. After five months sojourn in
Rome he returned to Florence, where he fell so
dangerously ill that the rumour was spread of his

8 Life of Leopardi.

decease. The doctors urged him to try a milder climate,
and in September, 1833, ^^ set out for Naples,
accompanied by Ranieri.

In Naples and its vicinity the remainder of his life
was to be passed. The natural beauties of the
surrounding country were delightful to one so appreciative
of their charm. His health improved after a time, and
he was able to display the riches of his intellect by
writing the " Paralipomeni," many detached thoughts
in prose like the " Pensées " of Pascal and the
Maxims of La Rochefoucauld ; and, above all, his
philosophic and immortal poem, the " Ginestra," of
which it may be said that, had he written nothing else,
his fame would be perpetuated by this production
alone.

In March, 1836, he who had formerly sighed so
deeply for death, and who had invoked it in such
exquisite verse, felt so greatly improved in health thj
he imagined he had many years before him. But thi
was only the last flickering of the flame before it went
out for ever. The cholera was raging in 1837, ^^^ ^^
prospect of falling a victim to a mysterious and terrible
disease filled him with horror. His strange aversion to
the places where he lived revived with unreasonable
violence. He wrote of Naples as a den of barbarous
African savagery. He yearned for home, and pined for
his family, and the last letter he wrote to his father
— three weeks before his decease — ^was full of plans for
returning to Recanati, as soon as his infirmities and the
Quarantine would allow. But his earthly sorrows
were drawing to a close, and he died suddenly at Capo
di Monte, when preparing to go out for a drive, at five
o'clock in the afternoon, on the fourteenth of June, 1837,
aged thirty-eight years, eleven months and sixteen days.'^'
" His body," says Ranieri, " saved as by a miracle
from the common and confused burial-place, enforced by
the Cholera Regulations, was interred in the suburban

* His father survived him ten years ; his sister, Paolina, thirty -two
years; and his brother Carlo nearly forty -one years.

Life of Leopardi. 9

Church of San Vitale, on the road of Pozzuoli, where a
plain slab indicates his memory to the visitor." He was
slight and short of stature, somewhat bent, and very
pale, with a large forehead and blue eyes, an aquiline
nose and refined features, a soft voice, and a most
attractive smile.

From the annals of his life we proceed to the chronicle
of his glory. But to understand the poet we must have
a knowledge of the man. Homer, Shakespeare,
and Ariosto can be appreciated without any acquaint-
ance with their lives and characters. It is not so with
poets whose works give utterance to their subjective
feelings. Even Dante requires some biographical
elucidation. How much more is this the case with a
writer whose originality is so pronounced, and whose
views are so coloured by his own nature as to appear
surprising, and at first alarming, to the reader !

If Aristotle be right in his opinion that all great
geniuses are inclined to melancholy. Leopardi ought
surely to be considered the greatest genius that ever
lived. His gloomy view of life is expressed in every
line he wrote. It draws a dark veil across the gorgeous
verses to Angelo Mai ; it fills the cadences of the
" Ricordanze " with mysterious melody ; and it appears
in august repose in the meditations of the ** Ginestra."
Not content with giving it utterance in verse, he is
sedulous to support it by reason and disquisition in
prose. That there was something morbid and diseased
in it can hardly be denied, even after we have made full
allowances for the fact that his gloom is metaphysical
and transcendental, and not strictly applied, or meant to
2ipply> to the every-day occurrences of life. But we
must go further and enquire how it came that a man of
such powers of intellect yielded to this tendency.

I think several explanations offer themselves, without
recurring to his physical infirmities, a solution of the
problem which always gave him the deepest offence.
In the first place, we must bear in mind the singular
training, or, rather, absence of training, he experienced.

IO Life of Leopardi.

From the age of ten he had no instructors except him-
self. Mis father's vast library quenched his thirst for
knowledge ; but knowledge so acquired must necessarily
be, in important respects, uncertain and fragmentary.
His ideas, never being contradicted, never influenced,
and never softened, must gradually have obtained such
a hold on his mind as to establish an eternal tyranny.
An imagination of marvellous vividness and richness
was fostered by the exquisite scenery of his birthplace,
and allowed to prey upon itself in the undisturbed
retirement of the parental abode. He informs us that
in his childhood he enjoyed the most delicious visions of
coming happiness. But in time the dreams were
dispelled, and truth alone remained. We all have our
illusions, from which we must sooner or later awake,
but few of us take their loss so deeply to heart as
Leopardi, And this consideration makes us aware of
the fact that all his thoughts and feelings were of pre-
ternatural depth. Others might allow themselves to be
diverted from the stern reality of things by trifles ; but
he stood face to face with Nature, and saw the revelation
of all her Gorgon terrors :

** Natura, illaudabil maraviglia,
Che per uccider partorisci e nutri ! "

" Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise, '
Who givest life in order to destroy 1 "

Others might allow themselves to be consoled for the
loss of love by frivolous considerations ; but he never
overcanie the longing for affection that was denied him,
and his misery was unvisited by comfort :

** Giacqui : insensato, attonito,
Non dimandai conforto ;
Quasi perduto e morto
Il cor s' abbandonò."

And when the bitterness of spiritual desolation rose to
such a height that further endurance was impossible, his
only prayer was for death :

J^if^ of Leopardi. f i

" E tu, cui già dal cominciar del *anni

Sempre onorata invoco,

Bella Morte, pietosa

Tu sola al mondo dei terreni affanni :

Se celebrata mai

Fosti da me, s'al tuo divino stato

L'onte del volgo ingrato

Ricompensar tentai :

Non tardar più, t' inchina

A disusati preghi :

Chiudi alla luce omai

Questi oechi tristi, o dell 'età reina ! "

The finest passages in his poems were inspired by the
deepest anguish of his heart. Ill-health and deformity
he felt as evils, chiefly because they prevented him from
appeasing his ardent yearning for love. /

This yearning was the result of the sweetness of his
disposition. Notwithstanding his melancholy, he seems
never to have been morose or disagreeable. His heart
was unblemished by spite or malignity, and he was, by
universal testimony of those who knew him, singularly
moral and upright in all relations of life. Ranieri, in
his " Sette Anni di Sodalizio," published some years
ago, tries to show his faults, but the worst he can say
of him is that he was excessively choice in his diet. This
little weakness he had in common with Alexander Pope,
a poet in whom the unkindness of nature produced very
different effects. Pope's omniverous vanity could
derive nourishment even from his deformities :

" There are who to my person pay their court :
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short ;
Great Ammon's son one shoulder had too high ;
Such Ovid's nose, and * Sir, you have an eye ! ' "

But Leopardi wrote the " Last Song of Sappho :

" Placida notte, e verecondo raggio
Della cadente Luna," etc.

Vanity seems to have entered in no way into his composi-

12 Life of Leopardi.

tion. Nor had he any of that ferocious vindictiveness
which inspires many verses of Pope with the venom of
the deadliest vipers, though he also had his libellers and
his rivals. We know what revenge Pope took on the
women who slighted him, and with what unspeakable
ribaldry he defìled them. But Leopardi, in a similar
position, wrote his incomparable " Aspasia," not even
revealing the real name of her to whom he alludes. The
most striking instance, however, of their dissimilarity, is
the difference in their philosophy. Pope's self-
complacency allowed him to indulge in optimism, with
which, however, many of his finest passages are at
variance. His intellect had sudden flashes of intense
truth, but he was not a systematic or profound thinker,
and when he wanted a system of philosophy as theme to
his brilliant verse, he took that most in vogue in his
time.

Widely different was the development of Leopardi.
He is the .embodiment in song of the spirit of pessimism,
if that disagreeable word is to be the cosmopolitan
representative of what the Germans call " Weltschmerz."
His view of life is not the result of a sourness that would
make everything appear bad and unsatisfactory, but of
an overweening compassion for the sufferings of his
fellow creatures. We hear his . lamentations on the
evils of life, but in his pages we see such visions of
beauty, such revelations of love, such exquisite glimpses
of nature that the world appears in his poetry more
beautiful, though more terribly and darkly beautiful,
than in reality. If we analyze a stanza or paragraph of
his poems, we find a train of thought that recurs with
curious regularity. It generally opens with the most
richly coloured and delightful scenes; but when the
reader is fully impressed with their loveliness, the clouds
gather, and the poet concludes with the utterance of
despair. The ode to Angelo Mai offers the earliest
instances of this in almost every stanza. It is also
strikingly exemplified in the opening paragraph of the
" Vita Solitaria." Sometimes a whole poem evolves in

Life of Leopardi. 13

this manner, like the "Primavera," and the veises to
Silvia. Such was, indeed, the progress of his life. It
began with the most radiant and heavenly visions, it
was darkened by the storms of reality, and it concluded
in sorrow and in gloom. Although his sufferings did not
originate his view of life, they certainly made him
express it with more poignancy than he would otherwise
have done.

The consideration of his philosophy leads us into the
sanctuary of his works. We have to deal exclusively
with his poems, and can therefore only bestow a passing
glance on the other performances in which he displayed
the vigour of his mind.

We have already mentioned his classical attainments.
They are attested by a vast quantity of works, most
of which were produced when he was in his teens.
Wonderful monuments of industry, they were scarcely
worth the price he paid for them : for it was in their
composition that he ruined his health by over application.

As I have mentioned above, the " Operette Morali "
are remarkable for their surpassing beauties of style,
but they are no less so for depth, energy, and originality
of thought.* The poet in Leopardi probably somewhat
hampered the philosopher; and the philosopher may,
now and then, have prevented the poet from revelling in
the flights of fancy. Though not offering a new system
of philosophy, his prose works are well worthy of study ;
but were I to express my candid opinion, I should say
that the gloom which gives such tragic grandeur to his
lyrics, is somewhat out of place in essays and dialogues,
and is only redeemed by the perfection of the style.
Indeed, if a foreigner may judge, his prose is almost too
perfect, its extreme finish depriving it occasionally of
energy. But no praise could be high enough for the
beautiful manner in which his phrases are balanced, for
their varied construction and noble harmony.

His poem entitled " Paralipomeni della Batracomio-

• There is an excellent translation of Leopardi's Prose Works, by
Charles Edwardes, in Trubner's Philosophical Series.

14 Life of Leopardi.

machia/' is, as the name indicates, a sort of continuation
of the Greek mock-heroic poem, describing the " War of
the Frogs and Rats." The subject is not very happily
chosen, and it is obvious that the narrative serves only
to introduce the digressions, and it is in these digressions
that the poet's brilliant imagination and felicity of style
are displayed. Certainly, since the days of Ariosto,
stanzas of equal beauty had not been produced in Italy.
Still, the poem as a whole is not interesting, although it
possesses an air of gaiety and vivacity, wonderful when
we consider his habitual gloom.

But Leopardi's universal renown is founded on the
forty-one poems and fragments of poems, published
under the collective title of " Canti ;" and it is from
that collection, exclusively, that the poems in this volume
are translated.

In the time of Leopardi, Italian poetry had sunk to a very
low ebb. The leading poets of whom Italy could boast,
were more remarkable for graceful fancy and lively wit,
than for sublimity and originality. Parini and Alfieri
alone exhibited striking intellectual qualities, but they
died when our poet was in his infancy. Parini, in whose
elegant satire all the refined frivolity of the eighteenth
century is reflected, had no great richness of invention ;
and Alfieri, than whom no poet could boast of more
boldness and energy of thought, was deficient in imagina^
tion. The tuneful verse of Metastasio enchanted Europe
for fifty years ; but the sweetness of his expression could
not disguise the trifling prettiness of his thoughts. Casti
had vigour and raciness enough to have made him a
great satirist if he had chosen fitter subjects for his
undoubted genius than tedious apologues, and lively, but
licentious, tales. These poets were all dead before
Leopardi rose on the literary horizon, and the only
established poetical reputation he had to encounter, was
that of Vincenzo Monti, to whom he dedicated his first
two Odes. If we examine the works of Monti merely
for the style, we shall find much to admire ; but in truth,
nature, depth, and emotion, he was utterly deficient.

Life of Leopardi. 15

The only contemporary poets who at all approached
Leopardi in intellect, were Foscolo and Manzoni; but
Foscolo, besides the disadvantage of living in exile,
frittered away his great powers on learned trifles ; and
Manzoni soon deserted poetry for the more popular field
of romance. Thus it will be seen, that none of these
poets were, in every respect, admirable, nor did they,
with the exception of Alfieri and Parini, strike out new
paths.

How necessary was an original and soaring spirit to
infuse life into the poetry of Italy ! At last the poet
arose whose gifts were exactly adapted to the arduous
task. That Leopardi fulfilled his mission with brilliant
success, is proved by the ever increasing influence of his
genius. During his life-time he was known only to
the master-spirits of his age, but since his death, his
works have become the property of the nation at large.
His greatness is acknowledged daily more and more, and
volumes are written on his life and writings, illustrating
and examining them from every point of view, and the
more his poems are studied, the more are their beauties
revealed.

As Carlyle said of Dante : " He is great, not because
he is world-wide, but because he is world-deep." This
depth, so unfathomable, and yet so remote from
obscurity, is the first and greatest of his intellectual
qualities. Closely allied to it is his amazing originality
of thought and style. He deserted the hackneyed
vehicles of expression current in his day, the minute
Sonnet and the elaborate Petrarchan Canzone. His
thoughts, for the most part, flow in an easy and
pellucid style through an alternation of rhymed and
unrhymed verses. He knew, what so few poets of
modern times even suspect, the value of economy.
What he can say in one line, he does not dilute into five.
If one simile suffices for his purpose, he does not regale
the reader with ten. Bombast and grandiloquence he
shunned, nay, he rather courted the other extreme of
severe simplicity. Though a man of vast learning, he

1 6 Life of Leopardi.

seldom indulged in allusions. In reading his poems we
are brought into direct contact with Nature, and with
her alone, so perfectly does he divest himself of
every thought foreign to his present subject. His
verses seem the inspiration of the moment, and not
the result of elaborate study. We see him in the
** Ricordanze," surveying the objects that revive the
memories of the past ; we see him in the little poem to the
Moon, ascending the hill to behold the familiar radiance ;
we see him in the ** Ginestra," gazing on the sparkling
heavens and the fiery crater of Vesuvius, until we quite
lose the sense of perusing a written performance.

And yet we know that he bestowed elaborate care on
his works. He says himself that he had an ideal of
unattainable perfection in his mind, which deterred him
from writing works of great extent, whether in prose or
verse. But that ideal I think he really has attained in
some of his finest poems. The merit of his works, not
only in degree, but in kind, is so immeasurably superior
to that of his contemporaries, that we cannot find a
standard for judging it without going back to the greatest
masters of the art of poetry. I have no hesitation in
placing him immediately after Dante and Ariosto for
strength of poetical genius. He surpasses Petrarch in
variety and comprehensiveness of mind, although he
may not always equal him in richness of style. For
genuine poetical inspiration in the purely lyrical sphere
he has no rivals in modern times except Shelley, Keats,
and Goethe. To prove that this eulogy is not
exaggerated, we will now examine the ** Canti " in the
order of their arrangement.

I. ** All 'Italia." This poem, written at the age of
twenty, though appearing first in the collection, was
not by any means a first attempt at poetry. Leopardi
had, it is true, up to this time devoted his attention
chiefly to learned subjects, but he had written as well a
considerable amount of verse, one of his earliest
productions being a tragedy in three acts, " Pompeo in
Egitto," which shows great command of language for

Life of Leopardi. 17

the age of thirteen, at which it was written. We find,
therefore, in this first poem of the celebrated series, full
mastery over the mechanism of verse and fine flashes in
the three opening stanzas, but the introduction of
Simonides is not a happy fiction. He should have
confined himself to the history of his own country, which
offers more striking themes than this classical
reminiscence.

II. " Sopra il Monumento di Dante." The tyranny
of Napoleon I., that weighed so heavily on Italy in the
early part of this century, is most forcibly described,
especially in the wonderful stanzas narrating the death
of the Italian troops in the Russian campaign of 181 2.
How sublime are the opening lines of the tenth stanza :

" Di lor querela il boreal doeerto,
E conscie fur le sibilanti selve."

The apostrophe to Dante in the fifth stanza is full of
fervour ; but, perhaps the only instance of bombast to
be found in our poet is the preceding address to the
sculptors.

III. "Ad Angelo Mai." I have mentioned above
that I consider this Ode to Angelo Mai on his discovery
of Cicero's ** Republic," one of our poet's three great
masterpieces. I was confirmed in this opinion by
Johannes Scherr, who, in his "AUgemeine Literatur-
geschichte," extols it as one of the sublimest Odes in any
language. How great, therefore, was my surprise on
perusing Montefredini's Life of Leopardi, to find that
the author has nothing but blame and ridicule for this
poem. He, though so ardent an admirer of Leopardi,
cannot find words strong enough to express his contempt
for such rubbish. We may, indeed, agree with him,
that the discovery of an old manuscript by a monk is
scarcely an event of sufficient importance to warrant
poetical raptures. But if we condemn all poems that
take their starting point from a slight occurrence, we
must begin by denying merit to Pindar, for what can be
more intrinsically trivial than the foundation on which

1 8 Life of Leopardi.

he builds his lofty fabrics ? It is further a mystery to
me how Montef redini can understand the eighth stanza
to allude to Tasso, when it is obvious that it applies to
no one but Ariosto, and is a most exquisite description
of the effect produced by that poet on the mind, offering,
perhaps, the finest passage in a poem replete with
beauties. How sublime are the verses on Columbus,
and how picturesque is the lamentation on the decline of
the imaginative powers !

IV. " Nelle Nozze della Sorella PaoHna." This
poem on a marriage that never took place, but was only
projected, is not equal to its predecessors, but it is
nevertheless original, and in parts forcible, and full of
patriotic inspiration. His sister was the only member
of his family whom he has immortalized in verse.

V. ** A un Vincitore nel Pallone." I did not think it
necessary to translate this ode, as it only repeats feebly
what its predecessors uttered energetically. These
five poems form a distinct class, the patriotic, in our
poet's works. Henceforth his horizon becomes wider,
and he laments, not only the sorrows of Italy, but those
of all mankind.

VI. ** Bruto Minore." In the foregoing poems
Leopardi plays, as it were, a prelude; but now the
curtain rises on the tragedy of his life. To avoid
justifying his despair, he puts his soliloquy into the
mouth of Brutus, after the disaster of Phillipi. There
are flashes in the poem that seem to illuminate an
abyss of misery and gloom, and here he first gives
utterance to one of those piercing laments which make
his subsequent poems so impressive :

** O casi ! O gener vano ! Abbietta parte
Siam delle cose."

He himself looked upon this as one of his most
remarkable poems, but I cannot consider it one of the
most beautiful ; the thoughts are not always presented
with all possible force, and the odd idea of animals
committing suicide is rather ludicrous. But the poem is

Life of Leopardi. 19

filli of significance. Montefredini observes very justly :
" It is the first wail of his tortured soul, the first
malediction against the cruelty of Nature. The senti-
ment is powerful, and rushes forth furiously. So young,
he is utterly miserable, and his opinions of life and the
world are already full of despair. Even the calm aspect
of nature wounds him as though it were an insult to his
sorrow, a cruel mocking of the tempest of the soul. . . .
The physical and mental life of Leopardi assumed too
soon a fatal bent. As in his youth his bodily sufferings
were excessive, so are his early poems finally and
immensely sad. No other youthful poems contain so
much despair or proceed from such a bleeding heart.
Leopardi buries himself in his immense sorrow,
deserting the region of airy fancy in which young

poets delight This tumult of emotion proves

that he had not yet resigned himself to his fate. He
was not born for such bitter utterance, nor are these the
fit inspirations of early poetry. Instead of the beautiful
themes of joy, hope and fond desire, our poet can only
sing of his despair."

VII. ** Alla Primavera." He was too much of a
poet to desert the realms of fancy without a glance of
affectionate regret, and in this poem to Spring, he
conjures up with magic voice the fables of the past.
Between the gloom of Brutus and the radiant loveliness
of these visions, how great if the contrast ! This is, in
my opinion, one of the most elaborate and polished of
his productions, and I am again obliged to differ from
Montefredini as to the merits of this Ode.

VIII. ** Inno ai Patriarchi." This hymn also has the
misfortune of not pleasing Montefredini. Still, it con-
tains passages wonderfully picturesque, and is a worthy
fruit of our poet's intimate acquaintance with Hebrew
literature.

IX. " Ultimo Canto di Saffo." As in the monologue ot
Brutus, Leopardi uttered his own views of life ; so in
the ** Last Song of Sappho " he expresses how keenly
he felt his physical afflictions. How august and calm

c — 2

20 Life of Leopardi*

is the opening, and how beautifully the poet blends his
sorrow with the description of Nature ! The third
stanza rises to iEschylean sublimity. Two spirits seem
to be battling for mastery over the poet — the one
pronouncing, the other lamenting, his doom. Most
beautiful is the effect achieved by the mysterious pathos
of the conclusion.

X. " II Primo Amore." After such a poem we
almost doubt whether we shall read further — whether
any other poem can be read after that supreme effort.
But the " Primo Amore," though different in kind, is,
as poetry, equally valuable. The former piece astonished
us with its sublimity ; this delights us with its delicacy.
For depth of feeling and reality of narration I know no
love poem that surpasses it ; but here and there we find
some obscurity and flatness in the diction.

XI. " II Passero Solitario." Not one of the least
admirable qualities of our poet is the great variety of
expression he commands. The five patriotic poems may
be considered as producing one effect ; but each of the
following is quite distinct from its predecessor, and the
" Passero Solitario " is again quite different from them
all. It is also remarkable as the fìrst poem in his later
manner — ^that of the " Canto Notturno " and the
" Ginestra." It is an idyl such as Theocritus, or, rather,
Wordsworth, might have written. The gloom is past,
the despair at rest, a gentle pensiveness alone remains.
The picture of the setting sun :

" Che tra lontani monti,
Dopo il giorno sereno.
Cadendo si dilegua, e par che dica
Che la beata gioventù vien meno,"

always seemed to me the most perfect instance of
subjective colouring of nature in the whole range of
poetry.

XII. " L'Infinito." This little gem concentrates in
a few lines the lustre of the richest poetry. The more
we examine it, the more we admire.

Life of Leopardi. 2 1

XIII. **La Sera del De di Festa." Though not
equal to its four immediate predecessors, I think this
poem worthy of high admiration for the delicacy and
rapidity of its transitions. It is wonderful to observe
with what ease the poet rises from simplicity to
sublimity, and returns a^ain to simplicity. What
perfection of art and what discrimination of style !

XIV. '* Alia Luna." A more tender sigh was never
breathed in song than here. I wish I could have done
justice to the exquisite lines :

** E tu pendevi allor su quella selva
Siccome or fai, che tutta la rischiari."

XV. " Il Sogno " is a very trifling production, with a
few lines worthy of its author, but too insignificant to
deserve translation.

XVI. '• La Vita Solitaria." The second paragraph
contains the finest poetical illustration I know of what
Schopenhauer calls " Willensfreie Anschauneng," and is
in our poet's noblest style ; the concluding apostrophe to
the Moon is very animated, but the poem is disjointed
and incoherent, and each paragraph would make a
separate poem.

XVII. ** Consalvo." If we were to judge from
internal evidence alone, we should say that this produc-
tion was the work of a feeble and unskilful imitator of
our poet ; so indifferent in execution as to be almost a
parody on his manner. Hysterical, exaggerated, and
heavy, it offers not one spark of his genius. Here, for once,
Montefredini's unsparing severity is in the right place ;
I have therefore omitted it in my translation.

XVIII. " Alia Sua Donna." This poem was the
tenth in the first edition of the " Canti." I do not know;
why the poet removed it to its present place in the
edition of 1837. I^ is eminently beautiful, and written
throughout in the author's happiest style. As the
expression of a yearning towards a superhuman ideal, it
is peerless. There is nothing more sublime in Petrarch.

XIX. «Al Conte Carlo Pepoli." This epistle is

2 2 Lite of Leopardi.

somewhat Horation in diction, with some beautiful
thoughts and charming verses, but not so characteristic
of the author as to be essential to a translation. It
might have been written by a less distinguished poet
than Leopardi. It is, however, a proof of his great
variety of style.

XX. "II Risorgimento " is the pearl of this collection.

" Credei ch'ai tutto fossero
In me, sul fier degl 'anni,
Mancati i dolci affanni
Della mia prima età :

I dolci affanni, i teneri

Moti del cor profondo.
Qualunque cosa al mondo
Grato il sentir ci fa."

What melody and sweetness of style ! How richly h e
describes his gloom, and how vividly his revival to the
joys of life !

** Meco ritorna a vivere

La piaggia, il bosco, il monte ;

Parla al mio core il fonte.

Meco favella il mar."

And how noble is the conclusion :

** Mancano, il sento, all anima,

Alta, gentile e pura,

La sorte, la natura.

Il mondo e la beltà.
Ma se tu vivi, O misero,

Se non concedi al fato.

Non chiamerò spietato

Chi lo spirar mi dà."

Of the other poems I hope I have been able to give
an almost adequate rendering; but of this, such a
rendering was impossible. The sense is so blended with
the music of the verse, and the music is so peculiar to
the Italian language, that I doubt whether any
translation could ever do it full justice. It is quite

Life of Leopardi- 23

unique among his works. He never wrote anything
before or afterwards even remotely like it. He seems
to have revelled in the sweetness of the melody, and to
have sported with his sorrow in the music of the lines.

XXI. ** A Silvia." The subject of this poem was a
young girl of Recanati, whom the poet and his brother
Carlo used frequently to see in their young days. It is a
beautiful specimen of his almost supernatural powers of
concentration and depth. From bewailing her untimely
end, the poet rises to contemplate the vanity of earthly
things. ** Before such masterpieces," Montefredini
justly observes, "as * Silvia ' and the * Passero
Solitario,' we are struck dumb with admiration." It is
an instance of how powerful an effect a great writer can
produce by slight means.

XXII. " Le Ricordanze." If I were asked to award
the palm to one above all the other " Canti," I should
name the " Ricordanze." It offers a combination of the
rarest beauties. Possessing the highest biographical
interest as a picture of his youth, it invests all the visions
it conjures up with the richest poetical colouring. The
reader will observe how simple is the opening, and how
the verses gradually rise in thought and style until they
reach the splendid outburst :

** E che pensieri immensi,
Che dolci sogni mi spirò la vista
Di quel lontano mar, quei monti azzurri.
Che di qua scopro, e che varcare un giorno
Io mi pensava, acani mondi, acana
Felicità fìngendo al viver mio !"

This superb passage is concluded with the utterance
of tragic emotion :

** Ignaro del mio fato, e quante volte
Questa mia vita dolorosa e nuda
Volentier con la morte avrei cangiato."

Then, by a natural transition, he introduces the
celebrated imprecation on Recanati, the energy of which
leads us to forget its injustice. How beautifully is

24 L,ife of Leopardi.

youth called ** the solitary flower of barren life !" Still
more beautiful is the following paragraph with its
description of happy childhood. The apostrophe to his
vanished hopes is full of sublimity, as also the picture of
his gloomy meditations. The two last paragraphs make
a worthy conclusion, especially the transcendant passage
on Nerina, to which no parallel can be found in the
whole range of lyric poetry.

XXIII. " Canto Notturno di un Pastore Errante
dell' Asia." This poem was suggested by a passage in
Baron Meyendorffs " Voyage d'Orenbourg à Boukhara,"
quoted in the " Journal des Sa vans," for September^
1826, where, speaking of a nomadic tribe of Asia, he
says : ** Plusieurs d'entre eux passent la nuit assis sur
une pierre a regarder la lune, et à improviser des
paroles assez tristes sur des airs qui ne le sont pas
moins." Some critics are inclined to place the ** Canto
Notturno " above all other productions of our poet, and
the opening is indeed divine :

" Che fai tu. Luna, in ciel ? dimmi, che fai,

Silenziosa Luna ?

Sorgi la sera, e vai.

Contemplando i deserti ; indi ti posi.

Ancor non sei tu paga

Di riandare i sempiterni calli ?

Ancor non prendi a schivo, ancor sei vaga

Di mirar queste valli ?"

** The picture of life in the second stanza," says
Montefredini, ** is as gloomily sublime as anything ever
written of a similar nature. It seems laden with the
sighs of oppressed humanity. And what repose amidst '
the universal darkness ! What a style ! — like the voice
of an immortal. All is solemn, immense, eternal. This
poem will ever be the poem of all nations — the noblest
and grandest expression of human sorrow." Great
praise is also due to the skill with which the poet
preserves the character he has assumed. The
shepherd does not enter into abstruse and subtle

Life of Leopardù 25

speculations — he only gives utterance to a vague
wonder at the mystery of things, and this vagueness
makes the poem deeply impressive. But still there
remains something unsatisfactory in the latter part, and
the gloom of the conclusion is exaggerated.

XXIV. " La Quiete dopo la Tempesta " is a
feeble copy of verses. There is a lovely touch of natural
description :

" Ecco il sereno
Rompe là da ponente, alla montagna ;
Sgombrasi la campagna,
R chiavo nella valle il fiume appare.''

Otherwise it offers nothing remarkable.

XXV. ** Il Sabato del Villaggio" opens with an
exquisitely idyllic description of a girl returning with
flowers from a country ramble, and of an old woman
relating the memories of her youth, while spinning with
her neighbours. The description of evening is worthy
of Wordsworth :

** Già tutta l'aria imbruna,

Torna azzurro il sereno, e tornan Tombre

Giù da colli e da' tetti.

Al biancheggiar della recente luna."

But the remainder of the poem is insufferably languid
and trivial. Those two pieces are omitted in
translation.

XXVI. "II Pensiero Dominante " is an instance of
our poet's mighty originality. It is as profound as a
chorus of iEschylus, and fathoming its mystic
depths is like venturing on an unknown ocean. The
simile of the Pilgrim is strikingly beautiful, and more
so in a poet singularly sparing of such ornaments.

XXVII. "Amore e Morte " equals its predecessor
in originality, and surpasses it in tenderness. The
Greek simplicity and purity of style conceal the morbid
and diseased sources of its inspiration. The apostrophe
to death is the most fervent prayer ever uttered in song.

26 Life of Leopardi.

XXVIII. " A Se Stesso " is the only poem of
Leopardi that is from beginning to end utterly gloomy,
bitter and despairing. All his other poems have at
least glimpses of beauty and serenity, but here there ace
none.

XXIX. " Aspasia." The passion rushes forth
wildly and ungovernably in this outburst of unrequited
affection. Every word betrays how deeply he loved
the woman to whom it is addressed. It seems to me
worthy of a high rank among his poems, as proving
how fully he enters into every subject he treats. His
embodiment of an abstruse metaphysical idea in the
most impassioned poetry is above all praise.

XXX. ** Sopra un Basso Rilievo Antico Sepolcrale "
is deficient in warmth of colouring, but the apostrophe
to Nature and the pathetic conclusion are fine.

XXXI. ** Sopra il Ritratto di una Bella Donna " is a
feeble echo of the former not very successful poem, and
is, therefore, omitted in our translation.

XXXII. " Palinodia al Marchese Gino Capponi."
This is the only satire in this collection, but it does not
equal the satiric vigour shown in the mock-heroic
" Paralipomeni." The humour is forced and the style
heavy, an unhappy imitation of Parini's elaborate irony.
It is written to prove that the inventions of modern
times do not add to the real happiness of mankind. I
have omitted it, because not offering a favourable sample
of our poet 'slighter manner.

XXXI II. * * 1 1 Tramonto della Luna " is a lamentation
on the infirmities of old age, written at a time when the
poet imagined his life would be prolonged. It has some
affinity to the conclusion of the " Passero Solitario,"
but the earlier poem is truer, because more moderately
expressed.

XXXIV. " La Ginestra o il Fiore del Deserto."
The last four poems were not in our author's highest
strain, but in the " Ginestra " he summoned all his
dying powers, and left a sublime legacy to the world,
** Ineffable poetry !" exclaims Giordani, " full of thunder

Life of Leopardi. 27

and lightning and funereal depth." We need not insist
on its beauties, on the noble opening, on the picturesque
descriptions of the Vesuvius in the latter part,
descriptions that enhance and illustrate the philosophic
meditations. Giordani was of opinion that it was his
best work, and it certainly surpasses the others in one
respect : it is characterised by a spirit of sublime
repose, resignation, and sweetness — a worthy conclusion
of his poetical career. But I do not doubt that many
pieces in this collection are more attractive to the
general reader.

The remaining seven numbers of the " Canti "
consist only of fragments and translations. The
eighteen opening lines of the fragment beginning :

" Spento il diurno raggio in Occidente."

offer a splendid description of a moonlight night.

And now that we have passed in review the works of
this great poet, we enquire wherein lies the charm, the
irresistible charm, of his writings. That charm has
been felt by the greatest minds of the century, and by
many who have no sympathy with his philosophy.
Alfred de Musset, who had certainly little in common
with the man or the poet, wrote enthusiastic verses on
the " sombre amant de la mort," and declared that in
the small volume of his poems more was to be found
than in works of epic length.

I am inclined to think that the secret of his power lies
in the unique and exquisite contrast between the
bitterness and gloom of his thoughts and the sweetness
and radiant beauty of his style. When other poets
give utterance to their misery and despair, they impart
a sable colouring to their diction. Not so Leopardi.
He can exclaim :

" So che natura é sorda,
Che miserar non sa."

But the verses are steeped in loveliness and melody.
Such is the first and most powerful cause of the great

28 Life of Leopardi,

effect he produces. Next we must place, though
higher in absolute merit, his quality of depth. With
the exception of Shakespeare and Dante, there is,
I think, no poet of modern times who equals him
in depth of thought. Every subject he treats he
pierces to the core. Other poets may delight us
with airier and more brilliant flights of fancy, but
Leopardi leads us to the brink of abysses, and shews us
their unfathomable depth. Fully to enjoy this power
we must read his finest passages slowly, and let each
verse saturate the mind. Hence the impression, after
reading his " Canti," that we have perused, not a small
collection of short poems, but a work of mighty design
like ** King Lear," or " Prometheus."

The third cause of his greatness, but one that will
weigh more with critics than with the general public, is
the austere severity of his taste, which confines him
strictly within the boundaries of his genius. He never
allows himself to enter an arena for which he knows
himself unfitted. He always remains purely poetical.
He is never, except in a few passages of his earliest
poems, declamatory, and even when the subject is
philosophical, he avoids becoming merely moralizing.
Hence his productions are perfect of their kind. We
must also allow him the merit of never being tedious,
and the skill of choosing attractive subjects. But what
will probably most endear him to posterity, is the pro-
found pathos, the human sympathy, he displays. From
his own sufferings he learnt to feel for those of all
mankind.

With regard to this translation, it has been my
endeavour to render my author's thoughts as accurately
as possible ; and whatever merits my version may lack,
it has at least the merit of fidelity. Fortunately, the
great freedom of Leopardi's metres makes fidelity not
very difficult to attain. Many of his poems are in
blank verse, others in a very peculiar union of rhymed
and unrhymed iambic verses of eleven and seven
syllables. It is curious to observe how the poet in his

Life of Leopardi. 29

latter works more and more discards rhyme, as if it were
too frivolous an ornament for his lofty meditations, the
harmonious effect being produced by exquisite choice
of words, and skilful variety of cadence. Several poems
are written in regular stanzas, but with some unrhymed
lines. I have translated the second, third, and sixth
poems exactly in the metrical arrangement of the
original, with the same succession of rhymed and
unrhymed verses, only making the last line of each
stanza an Alexandrine. The *' Last Song of Sappho,"
is also in the metre of the original, but I always
conclude regular stanzas with an Alexandrine. Other
poems in regular stanzas I have rendered without
reference to the rhymes of the original, with the exception
of the " Primo Amore " and the " Risorgimento."
Italian critics do not find fault with Leopardi's capricious
use of rhymed and unrhymed verses, but I should have
scrupled to introduce it into the English language, had I
not found in Milton's " Lycidas '* a precedent for so
doing. In that poem there are some verses without
rhyme, though not so many as in Leopardi's
compositions ; but in " Samson Agonistes," we find the
chorus using rhymes or not, with unlimited freedom.

POEMS OF LEOPARDI.

POEMS OF LEOPARDI.

TO ITALY.

É

O thou my country ! I behold the walls,

The pillars and the arches of our sires,

Their towers and statues old :

But I do not behold

Their glory, or their weapons, or their bays.

Wherewith they were surcharged. Disarmed and fallen,

Thou dost thy brow and naked bosom show.

Oh ! from thy deep woimds flow

What streams of blood ! What pallor meets our gaze !

Where is thy beauty now ? Of Heaven I ask,

And of the earth : ** Oh say.

Who hath reduced her to this piteous plight ?"

And what is worse, her arms strong fetters bind.

And without veil her hair floats to the wind,

And she, forlorn and sad, sits on the ground,

D

34 Poems of Leopardi.

To anguish giving way.
Weep, O my Italy, for thou hast cause :
Born to surpass mankind
In every phase of Fortune, generous and unkind.

Even though thine eyes were torrents, nevermore

Could tears enough be shed

Thine injuries to weep and bitter shame,

O wretched slave, a glorious Queen of yore !

Who writes or thinks of thee.

And beareth in his mind thy vanished fame.

And sayeth not : " Why is her greatness dead ?

What is the cause ? Where is her ancient might ?

Where is her valour in the glorious fight ?

Who robbed thee of thy sword ?

Who hath betrayed ? What science, or what wiles„

Or what victorious lord

Despoiled thee of the garments of thy pride ?

How didst thou fall, and when,

To this low state from regions glorified ?

Doth no one fight for thee ? No son of thine

Rise in thy cause ? Bring weapons ! I alone

Poems of Leopardi 35

Will fight, or perish in the fray divine.
Grant, Heaven, that even like fire
My blood may rise and all Italian souls inspire.*'

Where are thy sons ? I hear a sound of arms,
Of chariots and of voices and of drums :
In countries far away
Thy sons meet war's affray.
Have patience, Italy, for comfort comes.
I see a storm of warriors and of steeds,
'Mid smoke, the sword, by which the foeman bleeds.
Like lightning flashing wide.
Is not some balm unto thy soul supplied ?
Wilt thou not gaze upon the doubtful field ?
For whom their life-blood yield
The sons of Italy ? Ah, woeful sight !
For alien lord, their gore in streams doth flow I
Oh ! wretched he who perisheth in fight.
Not for his native soil and loving wife.
Not for his children's life.
But slain by others' foe
For stranger race, and cannot say in death :
" I give thee now the breath,
My fatherland most dear, thou didst on me bestow."

D — 2

36 Pwms of Leopardi.

Oh fortunate and blessed and endeared
The olden times, when throngs
Unnumbered sought to perish for their land !
And ye, to whom revering praise belongs,
Passes of Thessaly,

Where Fate and Persia lost power to withstand
The brave, the generous, the immortal few !
Methinks your mountains with mysterious voice.
Your forests, and your rocks, and azure wave
Unto the stranger tell
How on that plain the bodies of the brave
In dauntless legions fell.
Their lives devoting glorious Greece to save.
Ferocious then and wild,
Did Xerxes o*er the Hellespont take flight,
Laden with scorn of every future day ;
And on Antela*s memorable height.
Where the blest throng, in dying, ne*er found death,
Simonides did stand.
And gashed upon the sky, the ocean, and the land.

With tear-worn eyes, and with deep-sighing heart,
While strong emotion made his step infirm.
He seized the tuneful lyre :

Poems of Leopardi. 37

" Oh ever blessed ye

Who gave your bosoms to the hostile spears
For love of her who led you to the sun !
Ye, whom Greece loves, and nations far admire ! .
To arms and dangers dire
What love did guide those in their early years ?
What love the old whose days were nearly done ?
Why unto ye so gay

Appeared the final hour, that bright with smiles
You hurried on the hard and tearful way ?
It seemed as though to dance or banquet proud,.
And not to death, your numbers did proceed.
But Hades gazed with greed
Upon your valiant crowd ;
Nor were your spouses or your children near
When in the fatal fray
Without a kiss you perished, and without a tear.

" But not without the Persian's punishment

And anguish ne'er to die.

Even as into a field where bulls are pent

A famished lion rushes, and his fangs

And claws make havoc wild,

And give his bellowing victims fatal pangs :

38 Poems of Leopardi.

Thus, 'mid the Persian multitudes doth fly
The wrathful valour of the sons of Greece.
Behold the horsemen and their steeds overturned !
See how the whirl of flight
Entangles cars in many a fallen tent !
And of the first to run,
The tyrant, pale, and with dishevelled hair !
See how with crimson stains
Of barbarous blood the Grecian brave besmeared,
Giving the Persians infinite despair.
Fall, by their wounds exhausted, one by one.
Covering each other on the gory plains !
O blessed ye ! for aye
To live whilst earth preserves a chronicle or lay !

" Sooner destroyed and cast into the deep

From highest heaven the stars shall hissing fall,

Rather than your renown

Forego its glorious crown.

An altar is your tomb ; and full of love.

The mothers to their infants shall display

The traces of your blood. Behold, I sink,

Ye blessed, on the earth,

And kiss the rocks and the most cherished soil

Poems of Leopardi. 39

That shall be praised and glorious for aye
Throughout creation's girth.
Would I were with you in your graves below !
Would that my gore with yours combined could flow !
But if our different doom forbids that I
For Greece should perish in heroic fray,
And close for her mine eye :
Yet may the fame, endeared
To future ages, of your poet shine ;
And if the Gods benign
Consent, as long as yours be glorious and revered."

40 Poems of Leopardi.

ON THE MONUMENT OF DANTE ABOUT TO
BE ERECTED IN FLORENCE.

Although our race at last

By Peace is sheltered 'neath her snowy wings,

Italian spirits ne'er

Shall rive the chains by ancient languor cast,

Unless our hapless country to the fame

Of her proud sires her meditation brings.

,r~Italia ! bear in mind

I To honour the departed, for of such

Thy provinces are empty ; none can claim
Like praise of those who now are drawing breath.
Turn and behold the numbers unconfined,
My land, of heroes whom no time can touch.
And full of shame bewail thine honour's death, -
For without indignation grief is vain :
Turn to the past, and by thy shame revive,
And mindful be again
Of those who are no more, of those who still do strive.

Poems of Leopardi, 41

Different in face, in language, and in mind,
On Tuscan soil the stranger takes his way,
Desirous much to learn
Where he the ashes of the bard can find
Who equalled Ilion's poet in his song.
And, oh inglorious day !
He hears not only that the body cold.
The naked bones afar
Are lying in a weary exile long.
But that not even within thy walls a stone,
O Florence ! stands for him, whose glory old
Shines on thee like a star.
O ye, thrice bounteous, by whose deed alone
Shall this reproach be banished from our land !
A noble work is thine, whence love shall flow,
Renowned and courteous band,
From hearts that with deep love for Italy yet glow.

f
Yes, love for the ill-starred
Italian land, ye generous, be your guide !
She, to whom pity is dead
In every heart, for wretched and most hard
Are now the days that follow her past joy.
May you, by mercy, be with fire supplied

42 Poems of Leopardi.

To crown the works you wrought !
May grief and wrath inspire you for the woe
Whence Italy is weeping her annoy !
But with what praise, or what immortal song
Shall we extol you, who not merely in thought,
But with the genius whence your bosoms glow,
Sublimest palms shall find in ages long,
Your land adorning with so high a deed ?
Unto your souls what lay shall I address.
That in your hearts may feed
The never dying fire, and your high thoughts express ?

Like torches, verily, the noble theme
Shall in your spirit throw the kindling blaze.
Who can the wave describe
Of your proud ire and patriotic dream ?
C ^Say, who can paint the rapture of your brow ?
The lightning of your gaze ?
What mortal utterance of celestial thing
A faint reflection give ?

Hence, ye profane ! what tears of joyaunce now
The marble proud form Italy shall claim ?
Shall it e'er fall 7 Shall time a shadow fling
On your renown ? Ye live,

Poems of Leopardi. 43

Wherewith the anguish of our grief we tame,
Ye live for aye, O cherished arts divine !
The only comfort of our hapless race.
Ye round our ruins twine
Your loveliness, preserving our old honour's trace.

Lo ! I as well with zeal

Inspired to honour our grieved and sublime

Mother, bring what I can,

And with my song join in your chisel's peal, '

Reclining where your skill gives marble life.'

lofty father of Etruscan rhyme !
If of terrestrial things,

And if of her whom thou hast placed so high.
In thine abode the tidings can be rife :

1 know that not for thee thou feelest joy, ^
That frailer than the sands the ocean brings, ^
Likened to thy renown, which ne'er shall die,
Are bronze and marble ; and if years destroy.
Or have destroyed, thine image in our soul,
Our anguish shall even more disastrous grow.
And thy race, by the whole

Wide world despised, shall weep in everlasting woe.

44 Poems of Leopardi.

But not for thee, for this thy hapless land
Be joyous, if the example of its sire
Can ever give such strength
Unto the race, so sunk in slumber*s hand,
That for a moment it can greatly dare.
Oh ! by what evils dire

Thou seest her bowed down, who so ill-starred
Seemed to thine eyes when thou
To Paradise didst finally repair !
Now so reduced that, to her present plight.
She then was like a queen whom splendours guard*
Such anguish crowns her now
That when thou seest, thou mayst doubt thy sight.
The other evils and the other foes.
But not the newest and the most unkind,
I shall in silence close.
Whereby thy land well nigh its fatal hour did find.

Thrice blessed thou, whom Fate

Did not condemn such horrors to behold !

Who didst not see embraced.

By foemen fierce, Italian wives ; nor hate

And foreign fury desolate each field,

And rob the cities of their goods and gold ;

Poems of Leopardi. 45

Nor of Italian skill

The works divine to wretched thraldom led
Beyond the Alpine snows ; nor cannons wield
Their ponderous weight along the grief-thronged road ;
Nor stem commands, nor haughty rule for ill ;
Nor didst thou hear the insults and the dread
Abuse of Freedom's name, which seemed to goad
Our grief, while lashes did resound and chains.
Who did not grieve ? What did we not endure ?
What region ne*er complains
Of how those recreants sinned ? What temple was
secure ?

Why in such evil times did we appear ?

Why didst thou give us birth, O cruel fate ?

Or why not early death ?

Enslaved and subject is our land so dear

To strangers and blasphemers ; all her pride

Is fallen and desolate ;

No succour and no comfort can we see ;

All balm to ease the pain

That gives her keenest anguish, is denied ;

No solace can our bitter quest perceive.

Alas ! our life blood we gave not to thee,

46 Poems of Leopardi.

Land, dear to us in vain !
Nor have I perished ; though for thee I grieve.
Here wrath and pity in all hearts abound :
Full many of our number fought and bled :
Alas ! their doom they found,
Not for our Italy, but for her tyrants dread.

O Father, if thine ire
Lies dormant, thou art other than of yore ;
Upon the barbarous plains
Of Scythia, the Italian brave expire,
Worthy of other death ; the winds and skies.
The beasts and men wage on them cruel war.
In mighty hosts they fell,
Naked and wasted, and with gore besmeared.
For their dire bed the fatal snowstorm lies.
Then as they felt their last, expiring pain.
To her with whom their deep affections dwell,
They said : " Oh, not the clouds or winds that reared
Their deadly force, but steel, and for thy gain,
Should end our lives, dear country ! From thee far,
When fairest years begin to meet our gaze,
We, who all unknown are,
Perish for that dire race which fetters thee and slays.*'

Poems of Leopardi, 47

For their lament the Arctic desert bleak
Felt pity, and the moaning forests old.
Thus did they meet their end,
And wild beasts their neglected bodies seek
Upon that horrid ocean of deep snow.
Devouring their limbs cold ;
And the renown of the sublime and brave
Shall lie with those for aye

Whom tardy vileness claimeth. Though your woe
Be infinite, ye cherished souls so dear !
Yet be at peace ; and this console your grave,
That consolation's ray
Shall neither now nor in a future year
Be seen by you. Rest in your sorrow vast,
O ye true sons of her to whose supreme
Misfortunes unsurpassed,
Yours only is so great it can their equal seem !

Ah ! not of you complams

Your native land, but of the one who made

Your weapons 'gainst her rise,

So that for evermore she mourns her pains,

And with your sorrows bids her own resound.

Oh ! would for her, whom once Renown arrayed.

48 Poems of Leopardi.

Fair Pity's light were shed
In such a heart as could to her b& sent
To raise her from the dark abyss profound
Where she is lying ! O ! thou glorious Bard !
Say, of thine Italy if love be dead ?
Say, if the flame that fired thee now be spent ?
Say, shall no more that wreath its verdure guard
Wherewith we did so long our ills beguile ?
Lie all our crowns now shattered in the dust ?
Nor in a little while
Shall men arise like thee so generous and just ?

Are we for ever withered ? And our shame
No boundaries can hold ?
I, whilst I live, shall everywhere exclaim : —
***Thou evil race, turn to thine ancestors ;
Survey these ruins old.
And all the treasures wondrous arts bestow ;
Think on what soil thou treadest ; if thy heart
Feels not the light such high examples show.
Why stay ? Rise and depart.
To be the scene of deeds so mean and fell.
This land of mighty heroes was not made :
If cravens here must dwell,
'Twere better it should be deserted and betrayed.**

Poems of Leopardi* 49

TO ANGELO MAI

On His Discovering the Books of Cicero on the

Republic.

Dauntless Italian ! why dost thou not rest
From waking in the tomb
Our old forefathers ? And why bid them hold
Discourse unto this age so lost in gloom
Of worn exhaustion ? Wherefore, voice of old,
Appealest thou so often to our ears,
For centuries though dumb ?
What is the reason of this mighty change ?
As rapidly as lightning's flash, the page
Of sages we discover ; to these years
The dusty treasures come.
Bearing enshrined the glorious wisdom's range
Of those ancestral minds. What daring rage
Doth Fate give to thy soul, Italians pride ?
Or is it Fate who vainly human worth defied ?

50 Poems of Leopardi,

Truly, it is by Heaven's high design

That in this hour when we

Are most oblivious of our old renown,

We should the ghosts of our forefathers see,

Who on the baseness of their offspring frown.

Kind Heaven still has mercy on our land.

And seeks Italia's weal :

For either this or none must be the hour

To give unto our shattered virtue strength,

Which long beneath a sable shade did stand ;

And lo ! the tombs reveal
^ The buried who cry out ; in mightier power.

The long-forgotten h,eroes rise at length,

And of this period so remote they ask
If thou, my country, still must wear a coward's mask ?

Thou glorious throng ! dost thou for us yet cherish

A ray of hope ? nor void

Are we of worth ? To you, perchance, doth show

The future what it brings ? I am destroyed,

Nor have I any weapon 'gainst my woe ;

Dark are the years to come ; and what I see

Is such that hope appears

An idle dream. Heroic souls august !

Poems of Leopardi. 5 1

Within your homes a mob obscure and vile
Hath made its dwelling ; by your progeny
In these disastrous years
All good is scorned ; your old renown so just
Kindles nor love nor shame ; and follies while
Our days away at your proud marble's base,
And we to future times are patterns of disgrace.

Thou noble mind ! Now whilst the others heed not
Our parents of the past,
'Tis thine to heed, to whom Fate did inspire
Such favoured thoughts that by thy hand recast
Appears the time* when from oblivion dire
Their laurelled brows the old immortals raised,
With learning long enshrined.
They, to whom Nature spoke full many a word
Without revealing where her being lay.
And who in Athens and in Rome were praised.
Oh times, so long declined
In sleep eternal ! Then was not yet heard
Our country's final doom ; nor every ray
Was spent of indignation at our shame.
And on the wind some sparks from this our soil yet
came.

* The Renaissance.

E — 2

52 Poems of Leopardi.

Thy hallowed ashes harboured latent heat,
Foe, nevermore resigned,
Of Fortune, thou to whose indignant smart
Much more dark Hell than this our world was kind ;*
Hell : and where shall we fail to see a part
Better than ours ? And thy sweet-toned chords
Yet sounded to thy skill,
O tuneful lover, in thy love much tried ! f
Alas ! from woe Italian song doth take
Its origin. And yet our woe affords
Less cause for grievous ill
Than weariness. O thou beatified.
Whose life was full of sorrow ! But we make
Ourselves the prey of drear, fastidious scorn,
Our cradles and our graves thereby become forlorn.

Then was thy life with the ocean and the stars.
Thou daimtless Genoese ! %
(/ When past Alcides' pillars and the shore
That feigned to hear the hissing of the seas
As sank the sun to rest, thou, 'mid the roar
Of wild waves cast, discoveredst the ray

* Dante. t Petrarch. X Columbus.

Poems of Leopardi. 53

Of the declining sun,

The dawn that blushes when we fìnd the shade»
And overcamest Nature's wrathful frown.
An unknown mighty land was to thy way
The matchless glory won,
The perilous return ! Alas ! once made
The circuit of the world, it dwindles down,
And vaster far the earth, the sea» the sky,
Appeareth to a child's, than to a wise man's, eye.

Where is the pleasing beauty of our dreams
Of the abode unknown
Of races strange, or of the stars' retreat.
When glared the mom, or of the couch where shone
Aurora's beauty, or where chargers fleet
Did bear the chariot of the orb of day ?
They vanished for all time !
The world is compassed in a narrow rovmd :
All things are like ; the more we shades dispel,
The more the void increaseth. Gone for aye.
Imagining sublime.

Art thou from us ; though truth be scarcely fotmd.
We bid thee an eternal fare-thee-well ;
Thy former power is shattered by the years.
And the last comfort dieth of our woes and fears.

54 Poems of Leopardi.

Meanwhile, for sweetest visions wast thou bom,
And radiance fired thine eyes,
Prevailing bard ** of valour and love's joy
That in an age less full than ours of sighs
With happy errors banished life's annoy :
New hope of Italy ! O halls ! O towers 1
O ladies fair ! O knights !
O palaces ! O gardens ! Full of ye.
My mind is lost within a varied maze
Of vain enchantments. Fiction's fragrant flowers
And Fancy*s daring flights
Were balm of yore to human misery :
Now we have driven them from our vision's gaze.
What is the end ? Now that all things are plain ?
The certain truth to know that all, save grief, is vain.

Torquato ! O Torquato ! f Heaven then gave

To us thy lofty mind.

To thee nought else than agony and tears.

O thou unblessed Torquato ! couldst thou find

Solace in song ? The icy chill of fears

That froze the daring ardour of thy soul,

* Ariosto. t Tasso.

Poems of Leopardi. 55

Which Tyranny did grieve,
And Envy, nought could banish. Love betrayed,
Love, last delusion of our earthly life.
Thy injured heart. An empty waste the whole
Vast world thou didst conceive
To be, and Vacancy a queenly shade ; !

Thine eyes were closed when tardy praise was rife.
To thee thy final hour gave balm. He prays
For death, who knows our ills, and not for glorious bays.

Return, return to us ; arise from thy
Cold grave disconsolate.
If yet thou lovest grief, O much deplored
Example of deep woe. Worse is our fate
Than that which did unto thy heart afford
Such cause for long lament. O thou endeared !
Who would thy doom bemoan.
If, save themselves, for nothing else men care ?
Who would not scorn on thy great sorrow cast.
If all that greatness and ambition reared
Be held as Folly's own ?
If now obscure neglect fall to the share
Of the sublime, as envy in the past.
If higher than song we sordid grasping place.
Who would a second time thy brow with laurels grace ?

56 Poems of Leopardi,

From thee, until this hour, no man arose.
Thou prey to Fortune's rage,
Worthy of the Italian name, save one alone, *^
Alone superior to his craven age.
Ferocious Allobrogue ; to whom was shown
Heroic fire from regions of the skies,
Not from the barren soil

Of this our weary land ; whence, without shield.
Upon the stage on tyrants he waged war,
A memorable and a rare emprise !
This war, at least, be foil

To fruitless wrath, and some frail comfort yield.
He stood, the only champion, to the fore :
None followed him, for sloth and silence vile,
More than all other things, the hearts of men defile.

With scorn and indignation he pursued

His life august and grand,

And death preserved him from beholding worse.

O my Vittorio ! this was not a land

Or age for thee ; a loftier race should nurse

Illustrious minds. Now we, who nothing heed

• Alfteri.

Poems of Leopardi, 57

Save dull repose, live bound
By mediocrity ; the learned fall,
The rabble rises to an equal plain,
Making the world as one. Oh, still proceed.
Discoverer renowned,
To rouse the dead from their funereal pall,
Because the living slumber ; make again
Old heroes speak, so that this age at last
May rise to glorious deeds, or blush for errors past.

58 Poems of Leopardi,

ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS SISTER

PAOLINA.

Now that thy home thou leavest,
Its happy silence and serene repose,
And the ancient error which from Heaven flows,
Adorning in thy sight this lone abode,
By Fortune led upon the scene of life :
Become acquainted with the evil age
Which destiny devoteth to our years.
My sister, who in times
Of strife, dismay, and fears,
Proceedest to increase the ill-starred race
Of hapless Italy. Great models place
Before thine offspring. An unswerving doom
To virtuous enterprise
Unclouded days denies,
Nor in a bosom faint can lofty soul And room.

Poems of Leopardi. 59

Unhappy or else craven

Shall be thy sons. Then nobly choose the first.
A mighty gulf hath evil custom set
'Twixt bravery and fortune. Ah ! too slow,
And in the simset of terrestrial things,
Doth man begin to suffer and to know.
Heaven see'th why. The thought unto thee brings
Its first solicitude,
That not in Fortune's net
Thy sons shall fall, nor be to terror low,
Or hope the wretched tools : thence to be hailed
Happy and blessed in the future far :
For such the habits are
Of our ignoble race,
That living worth we scorn, and dead in honour place.

Our fatherland, O women !
Expecteth much from ye ; and not to harm
Our humankind, lurks in your eyes such charm
That it transcends the power of fire and steel.
To gain your praise, the warrior and the sage
Labour and think. Where'er the sun doth shine,
We see all things your mighty influence feel.
Of you the cause I ask

6o Poems of Leopardi.

Why sank so low our age ?
Did by your deed the fire of youth divine
Languish and die ? By you, our nature made
So shattered and so base ? Our slumbering souls^
Our will to shame betrayed,
Our native valour spent :
Must we for these on you our indignation vent ?

Love leads to mighty actions,
Who knows him well ; and of emotions vast
Is Beauty the inspirer. Void of love
Is he who feeleth no impassioned fire
When storms terrific raise their wrathful blast,
When sable clouds are darkly seen above.
And mountains tremble at their frenzy dire.
O wives and virgins fair I
From you scorn be his share
Who shuns the path of danger ; who ignores
His country's claim, unworthy ; who adores
A lowly idol in his recreant mind ;
If in your hearts you find
The love of men doth glow
And not of those who ever trivial fancy show.

Poems of Leopardi, 6i

Scorn to be named the mothers
Of an unwarlike race. The trials deep
Of virtue let your o£fspring learn to bear,
And in the bondage of contempt to keep
Whate*er is honoured by this shameful age. "^
Bid them rise to great actions. Make them know
What this our land doth to its fathers owe.
Even as the heroes' name
Was held in honoured fame
By Sparta's sons as they increased in years,
Until their spouses girded on their sword.
And then their death in anguish deep deplored,
And rent their hair with tears
When from the gory field
The warrior was brought home upon his faithful shield.

With heavenly skill, Virginia,
Did all-prevailing beauty mould thy form,
And thy disdain made Rome's ignoble lord
In tempests of fierce passion rage and storm.
Yes, thou wast fair, and in those happy years
When pleasing dreams joy to the soul afford,
What time thy father's unrelenting sword
Thy snowy bosom pierced.

»

i

62 Poems of Leopardi. ^

And thou to Hades dark

Didst gladly sink. " May age with wrinkles mark
My features, O my father ! May the tomb
Await me with its everlasting gloom,
Ere to the tyrant's bed
A victim I be led.
Slay me, if Rome be rescued by the blood I shed.*'

O maiden lofty-hearted!

Though in thy days the sun more brightly shone

Than now it shines, yet honoured and consoled

Thy tomb becomes, bewailed by many a moan,

Thy native country's sighs. Ah, now, behold !

The race of Romulus with new-born ire

Is fired around thy tomb. See, tyrants sink

Unto the very dust.

And freedom doth inspire

The once oblivious hearts ; and o'er the earth

•

Subdued, the Latin valour doth proceed
From the dark pole even to the torrid clime :
And thus eternal Rome,
Of languor deep the home.
Doth Fate, by woman's hand, revive a. second time*

Poems of Leopardi. 63

THE SOLILOQUY OF BRUTUS.

After the carnage of the Thracian plain,
Where in vast ruins fell

The strength of Roman freedom, whence one day
Ausonia*s valleys and the Tiber's banks
Should tremble at barbarian foes* affray
By Fortune's doom, and from the rugged woods
Of distant regions cold.
To desolate the lofty walls of Rome
Should Gothic hordes proceed :
Overcome and crimsoned with fraternal gore,
Brutus, in shadow of the lonely night,
Resolved by self-directed sword to bleed,
The inexorable Gods
And cruel fate defies.
Filling in vain the air with his impassioned cries :

04 Poems of Leopardi.

** O idle virtue ! In the realms of gloom,
Haunt of the unquiet shades,
Thy dwelling lies ; thy footsteps are pursued
By vain repentance. Ye unfeeling Gods,
(If Phlegethon*s dafk torrents are imbued
With knowledge of your presence, or the skies)
You mock the wretched race
From whom you temples claim. Decrees of fraud
Insult our humankind.
So much the sorrow of terrestrial things
Moves heavenly wrath ? Say, Jupiter, art thou
Enthroned the guardian of the evil mind ?
When storms terrific rave
And thunder rumbles wide,
Dost on the just and pious thou the lightning guide ?

" Unbending Fate ! Necessity austere

Crushes with heavy yoke

The slaves of death ; and if without an end

They see their ills, the thought consoles them still

That such must be. But doth woe less offend

When without balm ? Doth he feel less of pain

Who is despoiled of hope ?

An everlasting war, O ruthless Fate !

Poems of Leopardi. 65

On thee the brave man wages
Who knows not how to yield ; thy tyrant soul,
When thou, victorious, overwhelmest him.
With exultation o'er thy victim rages.
What time his heart august
The fatal sword receives.
And he with mockery spurns the base abode he leaves.

** He who to Hades takes a violent way
Doth rouse the gods to ire.
Such strength lies not in soft, eternal souls.
Stern Fate, perchance, our labours and our cares.
Our bitter fortunes that Despair controls.
Unto their leisure for amusement gave ?
Not amid woe and guilt,
But in the woods, a free and spotless age
Did Nature to us give.

Our Goddess once and Queen. Now that undone
By impious custom is the blissful reign.
And 'neath strange laws we unrejoicing live :
When these disastrous days
A dauntless soul doth spurn.
Should Nature, to accuse a shaft not hers» return ?

66 Poems of Leopardi,

" Of guilt unconscious and of their distress,
The happy beasts are led
By Time serenely to the end ignored.
But if 'gainst rugged trees their heads to strike,
Or from the summit, where the wild winds roared.
Of rocky mountains to hurl down their £ra.me,
They were by grief advised :
To their desire no stern refusal harsh
Would laws mysterious make
Or doubtful minds. Its joys from you alone
Of all the creatures by the earth brought forth.
Sons of Prometheus, did existence take :
From you the shades of death,
When Fate of wrath gives proof,
Alone from you, ye wretched, Jove doth hold aloof.

** Thou art arising from the ocean-wave

That reddened with our gore.

To gaze, fair moon, on the unquiet night

And plain so fatal to Ausonian strength.

Their slaughtered kinsmen meet the conquerors' sight ;

The mountains tremble ; from her pride's august

Doth ancient Rome decline :

And thou art so unmoved ? Thou didst behold

Poems of Leopardi. 67

Lavinia's race, the years
Of dazzling glory, and the laurels ^rbud ;
And on the Alps thy ftevet- varying tay
Thou still wilt shi^d Wheh 'hiid the grief àhd tears
Of Italy enslaved,
Her solitary grouhd
Unto barbarians* tread shall hiourtifuUy resound.

" *Mid naked rocks, òr on the vetdant trees,

Behold, the beasts àtìd bitds.

Lost in the oblivion they fot ever b©re,

Remain unconscious of the fuin Vast

And of the shattered woHd ; and as of yore

The Jjeasant's roof shall tedden to the sun.

And with their morning lay

The birds awake the valleys, and the speed

Of fiercer beasts pursue

■

The less resisting over hill and dale.
Oh Fate ! Oh idle race ! an abject part
We are of nature ; not the caves that knew
The sound of sighs, nor glebes
Drenched in our gore, display
Compassion for our grief, nor stars endim their ray.

r — 2

68 Poems of Leopardi.

'' The unheeding Kings of Heaven and Hell
Or of the unworthy earth,
Or night, in dying I do not invoke ;
Nor ye, last radiance of the shades of death,
Ye future ages. Who the gloom e*er broke
Of haughty tombs, with praise, and sighs, and gifts
Of crowds ignoble ? Worse
The years become ; and in an evil guard
The honour of the brave
And their last vindication lies, when left
To their degenerate sons. Upon my corpse
May birds of prey in famished fury rave,
And wild beasts rend my limbs,
And what remains be dust.
And to the air be left my name and memory just."

Poems of Leopardi, 69

TO SPRING;

OR,

THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY.

Because the sun restores

Its beauty to the sky, and airs revive

At Zephyr's breath, whence heavy clouds retire.

Divided in their shadows deep and grey :

The birds their pinions trust

Unto the breeze, and the diurnal ray

Doth give new hope of love and new desire

To happy beasts amid the dews dissolved.

Amid the forests filled with joyous light :

Perchance unto the weary minds of men.

In graves of woe entombed.

Returns the happy age, by grief and dire

Torches of truth consumed

Before its time ? Darkened for aye and spent

70 Po^m^ of Iteopc^rdt.

Are not Heaven's rays for him to anguish doomed
Through Time's eternal flight ?
And, odorous Spring, art thou on firing bent,
This frozen heart, to whom hath long been told
Even in the flower of life, that it is worn and old ?

Dost thou still live, divine
Nature, still live ? And the unaccustomed ear
Receives the sound of the maternal voice ?
The streams wer^ haunts of spotless pymphs ^rewhile ;
Abodes and mirrors clear

Were liquid springs. The secret dances strange
Of feet immortal, shook the wild ravine
And wood remote (where now the fierce winds range,
Deserted else) ; and the mild shepherd heard.
When guiding to meridian shades beside
The flowery river bank.
His thirsty flock, a piercing lay proceed
From sylvan deities' reed.
Resounding far : and witnessed with amaze
The waters quake ; for veiled from mortal gaze.
The Goddess of the bow
Sank in the warm stream of the flood below,
And from the dust of the ensanguined chase
Her snowy limbs did cleanse and arms of virgin grace.

Poems of Leopardi. 7 1

In happier days of yore

The flowers, the herbs, the forests were alive.

The firmament, the Titan of the light,

Were conscious of mankind ; o'er hill and vale

When shone thy silver beam,

O radiant Cynthia ! in the lonely night

With orbs intent thy brow the wanderer sought.

And thee his path's companion he did deem,

And fancied we were cherished in thy thought.

If man from factions of fierce cities fled

And from disastrous strife.

Seeking for refuge mid the mighty trees

Of deepest forest lone :

He thought that fire ran through their arid veins.

That foliage breathed ; and quivering in the embrace

Full of delicious pains,

, Daphne and Phyllis, or the wailing moan
For him who in Eridanus was cast

By fury of the Sun, he heard upon the blast.

Nor piercing wail and sighs
Of human woe, ye rocks of rigid height.
Struck you, unfeeling, whilst lone Echo dwelt
In your recesses of alarming night :

72 Poems of Leopardi.

No error of vain wind,
But wretched spirit of a nymph in tears,
Of mortal shape despoiled by ruthless Fate
And cruel Love. She, *mid the grottos blind
And naked crags and dwellings desolate,
The loud complaining of our woes and fears
To the imprisoned air

Revealed and taught. And thee in earthly deed
Well versed did Fame declare,
Sweet-throated warbler in the leafy wood
Who now dost praise the infant year with song.
Lamenting once the wrong
That made thy spirit with deep anguish bleed.
In notes sublime unto the darkening sky,
At which for pity and rage light did from Heaven fly.

But not to ours allied

Is now thy race ; those varied notes of thine

Pain mellows not ; and thee, unstained by guilt.

Much less endeared, the dusky valleys hide.

Alas ! now that divine

Olympus mourns its empty halls ; and wide

The thunder wanders o'er the cloud-capped peaks,,

In sightless rage the noble and the base

Poems of Leopardi. 73,

Appalling with its rumbling ; and our soil,
Unconscious of the offspring it doth feed,
Brings forth its sons for moyle :
Thou the deep anguish and the fate obscure
Of mortals dost endure,
O wondrous Nature ! Thou the ancient spark
Art kindling in my soul, if thou indeed , '

Livest ; if aught there be /

In Heaven above, or on the sunny earth, \

Or in the bosom of the azure main.
To gaze, even though unpitying, on terrestrial pain.

74 Poems of Leopardi.

HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.

And you the song of unrejoicing sons,
Ye lofty fathers of the human race,
Shall celebrate with praise ; ye far more dear
Unto the eternal Ruler of the stars,
And much less sorrowing brought unto the light
Sublime than we. Not piety and not
The laws of Heaven imposed the unceasing ills
That now afflict mankind, for sorrow born,
And destined to discover greater joy
In the nocturnal shadows of the tomb
Than in the radiance of the orb of day.
And if an ancient legend still doth tell
The story of your ancient error dire
That yielded man unto the tyranny
Of suffering and grief ; the guilt more fell.
The more unquiet minds and frenzy fierce
Of your descendants made the injured skies
And Nature, in return for all her cares

Poems of Leopardi. 75

Spumed and neglected, ieel indignant wrath :
From which the fire of life a curse received.
And mothers trembled at the load they bore,
And Hell itself was imaged on the earth.

Thou first, O father of the human race.
Didst see the sparkling of revolving spheres.
The new-born generations of the fields.
The breezes roving o*er the infant trees.
When towering rocks and yet unpeopled vales
Heard for the first time Alpine fury sound
Of rushing torrents ; when unconscious Peace
Reigned o*er the destined regions of renowned
Nations and cities full of strife and noise ;
And when upon imcultivated hills
Silent and lonely did the radiance shine
Of sun and moon. Oh happy thep, ignoring
Events disastrous and the name of guilt,
The vast abode of earth ! Oh, how much grief
Unto thy rs^ce, tho\i Father full of sorrow !
How long a series of mo$t bitter deeds
Th^ FM^s pr^pf^re ! The soil, behold i is stained
With deepest crimson of a brother's blood.
By brother shed, and o'er the sky divine

76 Poems of Leopardi.

The wings of Death their evil shadow throw.
The fratricide with horror taketh flight,
Shunning the lonely dimness of the shades
And secret wrath of winds in forest deep ;
He is the first to build proud towns, henceforth
Domain and dwelling of Care's pallid form ;
And first Remorse despairing fixeth man
In a pent-up and undelightful home.
Then from the plough the guilty hand was ta*en»
And scorn was cast on labours of the field,
And the evil halls became the home of sloth.
All minds lay languid and of strength bereft
In weary frames ; and as the last and worst
Of ills, mankind by slavery was bound.

And thou from pouring skies and rolling seas
That lashed the summits of the cloudy peaks.
Didst save the germ of the ill-fated race,
O thou to whom from sable space of air
And from the mountains floating in the deep,
A sign of hope restored by snowy dove
Was brought ; and from the ancient clouds emerging^
The troubled sun upon the skies obscure
Painted the bow of many beauteous hues.

Poems of Leopardi. 77

The rescued race returns unto the earth,
Renewing evil deeds and ruthless thoughts
And their pursuing terrors. To the reign
Of oceans inaccessible it shows
Its vengeful might, and beareth tears and grief
To stars unknown and to remotest shores.

Now thee within my heart I meditate,
And of thy race the generous descendants,
Thou just and valourous father of the pious ! '
I shall relate how, seated in the calm
Meridian shadows of a quiet home.
Beside the meads so dear unto thy flocks.
Thy soul was blest by strangers from the Heavens
Ethereal and disguised ; and how, O son
Of wise Rebecca ! in the evening hour
Beside the rustic well and in the vale
Of Haran, cherished by the gentle shepherds
In their gay leisure, love inspired thy heart
For Laban's beauteous daughter : love supreme.
Who to long exile and affliction long.
And to the hated yoke of servitude.
Made many a soul of haughty strength submit.

78 Poems of Leopardi.

Once, truly once (nor with mete shadows idle
Aonian song and legendary lore
Delude mankind), this globe of ours benign
And dear and pleasant to our race appeared,
And golden was the tenour of out age.
Not that with milk the fertile springs ìiishèd fofth,
And from the mountains to the valleys spread ;
Nor with the flocks the tiger did resort
In happy peace ; nor with the Wolves the sh^herd
Proceeded gaily to the crystal fount ;
But that our humankind lived without gtief,
Unconscious of the fate that o'er it hung,
And of the woes impending ; the sweet ehrot^
The fond delusions, and the pleasing veil
Across the laws of Heaven and Nature throwh,
Were all sufiicient ; and our quiet bark
Was led into the haven of calm Hope.

Thus, in the boundless forests of the West
Liveth a happjr race, whom pallid Care
Pursueth not, whose members ate not wasled
By dire disease ; to whom the trees 3rield fhiit ;
Abode, the caverns kiùd ; refreshitig drink,
The rivulets and brooks ; and as her prey

Poems of Leopardi. 79

Death claims them unforeseen. Alas ! 'gainst our
Unhallowed daring, how defenceless are
The haunts of Nature wise ! our dauntless fury
Doth penetrate the shores and caves remote
And quiet forests, teaching the despoiled
Desires and sorrows which they niever knew,
And hunting Happiness, aghast and naked,
Even to the splendours of the setting sun.

^o Poems of Leopardi.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

Thou peaceful night, thou chaste and silver ray
Of the declining Moon ; and thou, arising
Amid the quiet forest on the rocks.
Herald of day : O cherished and endeared,
Whilst Fate and doom were to my knowledge closed.
Objects of sight ! No lovely land or sky
Doth longer gladden my despairing mood.
By unaccustomed joy we are revived
When o'er the liquid spaces of the Heavens
And o*er the fields alarmed doth wildly whirl
The tempest of the winds ; and when the car,
The ponderous car of Jove, above our heads
Thundering, divides the heavy air obscure.
O'er mountain peaks and o'er abysses deep
We love to float amid the swiftest clouds ;
We love the terror of the herds dispersed.
The streams that flood the plain,
And the victorious, thunderous fury of the main.

Poems of Leopardi. 8 1

Fair is thy sight, O sky divine, and fair
Art thou, O dewy earth ! Alas, of all
This beauty infinite, no slightest part
To wretched Sappho did the Gods or Fate
Inexorable give. Unto thy reign
Superb, O Nature, an unwelcome guest
And a disprized adorer, doth my heart
And do mine eyes implore thy lovely forms ;
But all in vain. The simny land around
Smiles not for me, nor from ethereal gates
The blush of early dawn ; not me the songs
Of brilliant feathered birds, not me the trees
Salute with murmuring leaves ; and where in shade
Of drooping willows doth a liquid stream
Display its pure and crystal course, from my
Advancing foot the soft and flowing waves
Withdrawing with affright,
Disdainfully it takes through flowery dell its flight.

What fault so great, what guiltiness so dire.
Did blight me ere my birth, that adverse grew
To me the brow of fortune and the sky ?
How did I sin, a child, when ignorant

82 Poems of Leopardi,

Of wickedness is life, that from that time
Despoiled of youth, and of its fairest flowers»
^ The cruel Fates wove with relentless wrath
The web of my existence ? Reckless words
Rise on thy lips ; the events that are to be,
A secret council guides. Secret is all,
Our agony excepted. We were born.
Neglected race, for tears ; the reason lies
Amid the gods on high. Oh cares and hopes
Of early years ! To beauty did the Sire,
To glorious beauty an eternal reign
Give o'er this humankind ; for warlike deed
For learned lyre or song,
In unadorned shape, no charms to fame belong.

Ah, let us die ! The unworthy garb divested,
The naked soul will take to Dis its flight.
And expiate the cruel fault of blind
Dispensers of our lot. And thou, for whom
Long love in vain, long faith and fruitless rage
Of unappeased desire assailed my heart.
Live happily, if happily on earth
A mortal yet hath lived. Not me did Jove

Poems of Leopardi. 83

Sprinkle with the delightful liquor from
The niggard urn, since of my childhood died
The dreams and fond delusions. The glad days
Of our existence are the first to fly ;
And then disease and age approach, and last,
The shade of frigid Death. Behold ! of all
The palms I hoped for, and the errors sweet.
Hades remains ; and the transcendent mind
Sinks to the Stygian shore
Where sable night doth reign, and silence evermore.

G — 2

84 Poems of Leopardi.

THE FIRST LOVE.

The day once more within my memory lives
When first I felt the afiray of Love, and said :
*< Ah me, if this be Love, what pangs he gives ! "

Unto the earth I bent mine eyes and head,
Beholding her from whom my heart did learn
The first and stainless passion whence it bled.

Love, to dire goal thou didst my fancy turn !
Why should so tender an affection sting
With such desire, such agonies that bum ?

Why not serene, and with unfettered wing.
Why full of frenzy and of loud lament
Into my heart didst thou thy joyaunce bring ?

Tell me, my tender heart, what terror sent
A shaft through thee, what anguish 'mid the thought,
Beside which paled whate*er was once content ?

That thought by day with flattering pleasure fraught»
By night as well, unto my mind appeared.
When worlds the silence of deep shadows sought.

Poems of Leopardi. 85

Restless, yet happy, though to grief endeared,
Thou on my pillows didst alarm my frame
With palpitations, every minute feared.

And where I sad and grieved and weary came
To close mine eyes in sliunber, feverish fire
And frenzy roused me, sleep could never tame.

How 'mid the shades, the queen of my desire
Uprose with vivid splendoiu:, and mine eyes
Gazed on her closed, the lids not rising higher !

How many a thrill of sweet emotion flies
Through my glad frame which joyous ardours seize !
How many thoughts within my soul arise,

Uncertain, undefined ! Thus *mid the trees
Of ancient forests doth a murmur sound.
Vague, deep of tone, in answer to the breeze.

And whilst in silence all my thoughts were boimd.
What said*st thou, heart, when she went far away.
For whom a world of passion thou hadst foimd ?

I scarce within me felt the heat a day.
Arising from Love's furnace, when the air
Whereon it came, to scenes remote did stray.

At early dawn I lay in sleepless care ;
Before our house the horses pranced, ere long
To make me of my only joyaunce bare !

86 Poems of Leopardi.

And I, to whom misgivings vague belong,
These orbs did idly in the shadows strain,
And forced my hearing with an effort strong

To catch the voice, last token I could gain
From the fair lips of her whom I revere :
All else, alas ! hath Heaven from me ta'en.

How many a time struck on my doubtful ear
Plebean cries and accents, and I froze
In all my frame, my heart appalled with fear I

And when at last within my heart I close
The voice so well beloved, and hear the race
Of wheels and horses as the carriage goes :

Knowing myself despoiled, I hide my face,
And shut mine eyes, and sink upon my bed.
And sigh, and on my heart my hand I place.

After a while with wavering limbs I tread
As one amazed, along the silent room.
And " What power else hath struck my heart ?" I said.

Then the remembrance with most bitter gloom
Settled within my bosom ; and my soul
Became to all the scenes of life a tomb.

And seas of anguish through my being roll.
And I did feel as when the torrents drear
Pour from the clouds, and shades o'ercast the whole

Poems of Leopardi. 87

Space of the sky ; nor born for many a tear,
Knew I the youth of vanished years twice nine,
When, Love, thou first didst in full power appear,

When for all pleasure scorn alone was mine,
Nor dear the quiet dawn or meadows green
Or joyous radiance of the stars that shine.

The love of glory was no more the queen
Of this my soul, which it before did bum,
For love of beauty reigned there all serene.

To wonted studies no more thoughts I turn.
And those unto my fancy idle seem
For which all other thoughts I used to spurn.

Ah ! I myself another self must deem
That so much love another love hath ta*en !
We are, in truth, vain as an empty dream !

Only my heart did please me, and we twain
In an eternal dialogue immersed,
I loved to sit, the guardian of my pain.

Mine eyes bent on the ground or else inversed
Within myself, on lovely face to gaze
Or on a form unpleasing, never durst :

For the unspotted image to erase
That dwelt within my bosom, much I feared,
As calm lakes ruffle when the zephyr plays.

88

Poems of Leopardi. \

And the remorse that not enough I cheered
My heart with joy, a thought so full of pain
That pleasures past it maketh unendeared,

Rankled within me in the days that wane,
For shame could not my cloudless soul appal.
Nor hue of indignation my brow stain.

To Heaven, to you, ye gentle lovers all,
I swear no evil will did in me strive,
None could my fire base and ignoble call.

That fire yet lives, my love is yet alive.
Still in my thought the beauteous image reigns.
Whence other joys than from the skies derive,

I never felt ; enough content remains.

Poems of Leopardi 89

THE LONELY BIRD.»

Upon the summit of the ancient tower

Unto the land around, thou, lonely bird,

CaroUest sweetly till the evening hour,

And through the vale thy melody is heard.

Spring makes the gentle air

Fragrant and bright, and animates the fields,

Bidding the gazer in his heart rejoice.

Hark to the lowing herds, the flocks that bleat,

The other birds that full of joyaunce sing

And in the air in happy circles meet.

As though they homage to their fair time bring.

Thou, full of thought, beholdest all aside,

Nor carest to take wing

With thy companions, scorning their delight.

Thou singest, and the flower

Of spring thus fadeth with thy life's sweet hour.

* i.e. *' PftMero Solitario " a bird very common in Italy, shy, and of
lonely habits, with dark blue feathers on its breast. Its voice is most

melodious.

90 Poems of Leopardi.

Ah me ! how like to thine
My habit doth appear ! Pleasure and mirth,
The happy offspring of our earlier age,
And thou, Youth's brother, Love,
Thou bitter sigh of our advancing years.
I heed not ; why, I cannot tell ; but far
From them I take my way ;
And like a hermit lone.
Nor to my birthplace known,
I see the spring of my existence die.
This day that now is yielding to the night,^
Was in our hamlet ever festive held.
Upon the air serene the bells resound
And frequent firing of the distant guns,
Arousing the deep echoes far and wide.
In festival attire
The youths and maidens go,
Leaving their homes, upon the country paths,
Rejoicing to be seen and to admire.
I to this tower, remote
From sight of men, repairing all alone,
All joy and mirth postpone
For other times ; and as I gaze on high,
The sun doth strike mine eye ;

Poems of Leopardi. 91

Beyond the summit of yon moxmtain far,
After the day serene,
He sinketh to his rest, and seems to say
That happy youth is leaving me for aye.

Thou, lonely warbler, coming to the close
•Of what the stars have granted thee to live.
In truth of these thy ways
Shalt not complain, for Nature on thee lays
Thy fondness of repose.
To me, if of old age
The dreaded terrors stern
I cannot from me turn.

When to no heart this soul of mine can yearn.
When void the earth will be, the future day
More than the present, wearisome and grey :
How will this lone mood seem ?
What shall I of myself in past years deem ?
Ah me ! repent too late.
And often gaze behind disconsolate.

92 Poems of Leopardi.

THE INFINITE.
I always loved this solitary hill
And this green hedge that hides on every side
The last and dim horizon from our view.
But as I sit and gaze, a never-ending
Space far beyond it and unearthly silence
And deepest quiet to my thought I picture,
And as with terror is my heart o'ercast
With wondrous awe. And while I hear the wind
Amid the green leaves rustling, I compare
That silence infinite imto this sound,
And to my mind eternity occurs.
And all the vanished ages, and the present
Whose sound doth meet mine ear. And so in this
Immensity my thought is drifted on.
And to be wrecked on such a sea is sweet.

Poems of Leopardi. 93

THE HOLIDAY NIGHT.

The night is fair, without a breath of wind,
And on the roofs and gardens full of peace
The moon reposes and reveals afar
Each mountain all serene. O my beloved I
The haunts of men are silent ; in their homes
Rarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp.
Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrapped
Within thy quiet room ; no carking care
Disturbs thy rest ; nor dost thou know or think
How deep a wound thou openedst in my heart.
Thou art asleep ; I sally forth to greet
The firmament, to gaze on so benign.
And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways.
Who made me but for woe. ** To thee be hope
Denied," she said, " even hope ; and in thine eyes
No other light, save that of tears, may shine."

94 Poems of Leopardi.

This day was full of pleasure ; from thy pastime
Thou now dost take repose : perchance in dreams
Those who pleased thee and whom thyself did please^
Thou seest ; but not I, for all my hopes,
Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile,
I ask myself how much of life remains
For me to live, and here upon the earth,
Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me down
In utter desolation. O ye days
So full of horror for such early years !
Ah, woe is me ! Upon the road not far
I hear a workman's solitary song ;
After his joyaunce, in late hours of night
He is returning to his poor abode ;
And bitterly my heart is rent in twain
When I consider all on earth doth pass
And leaveth not a trace. Behold ! the day
Of joy is gone, and to its festive hours
The day of toil succeeds, and time doth take
Whatever belongs to man. Where, where is now
The pride of ancient nations ? Where the fame
Of our renowned forefathers, and the vast
Dominion of old Rome, the clash of arms
Resounding o'er the ocean and the earth ?

Poems of Leopardi. 95

AH now is peace and silence, and the world

Is wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more.

In those beginning years, when eagerly
We seek the festive day, I lay awake
When it was over, tossing full of grief
Upon my bed ; and in late hours of night
A song I heard upon the road without.
Expiring in the distance by degrees,
With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain.

96 Poems of Leopardi,

TO THE MOON.

fair and gracious Moon ! Well I remember
A year hath passed, since up this very hill

1 came so full of anguish to behold thee :
And o'er yon forest thou didst shed thy beams.
As at this moment, filling it with light.

But veiled in mist, and tremulous with tears
That hung upon my lashes, to mine eyes
Thy radiance did appear, for dark with woe
Was then my life, and is, nor will it change,
O Moon, thou my adored ! And yet I love
To bear in mind and one by one to count
The slow years of my sorrow. Oh, how sweet
It is to youth, when hope has yet a long.
And memory has but a brief, career.
To dwell in thought on things for ever past.
Though they be sad and though affliction live !

Poems of Leopardi, 97

SOLITUDE.

When on his roost the cock begins to crow

And beat his wings ; and to his work proceeds

The tiller of the soil ; and on the dews

The rising sun his flashing rays doth cast :

Upon the panes the morning shower doth beat,

Awaking me from slumber with its sound :

And I arise and bless the filmy clouds,

The birds that tune their notes, the pleasant wind

And the delightful verdure of the meads :

Because, ye walls of unpropitious towns,

I've seen and known ye far too well, where Hate

Hauntetb Affliction, where I sorrowing live.

And so shall die, would it were soon ! At least

Some scanty pity is allowed my grief

In these abodes by Nature, once, alas !

How kinder far to me ! And thou as well,

O Nature, tumest from the wretched ; full

H

98 Poems of Leopardi.

Of scorn for woe, thou payest homage vile
To Happiness, the universal queen.
In Heaven and Earth no friend for the ill-starred,
No refuge, death excepted, doth remain !

At times I seat me in a lonely spot.
Upon a hill, or by a calm lake's bank.
Fringed and adorned with flowers taciturn.
There, when full mid-day heat informs the sky.
His peaceful image doth the sun depict.
And to the air moves neither leaf nor herb.
And neither ruffling wave nor cricket shrill.
Nor birds disporting in the boughs above.
Nor fluttering butterfly, nor voice nor step
Afar or near, can sight or hearing find.
Those shores are held in deepest quietude :
Whence I the world and even myself forget,
Seated unmoved ; and it appears to me
My body is released, no longer worn
With soul or feeling, and its old repose
Is blended with the silence all around.

O fleeting Love I full many a day is gone
Since from my bosom thou hast ta*en thy flight.
Though fired of yore by most impassioned zeal.
It hath been blighted by the frigid hand

Poems of Leopardi. 99

Of cold misfortune, and is turned to ice

Even in the time when it should blossom forth.

The period I remember when thou first

Didst hold thy court within this heart of mine.

It was the time, irrevocably sweet,

When youthful eyes are opened to the scene

Of earthly sorrow, and it smiles on them

As though it were a paradise below.

The guileless heart of youth doth gladly beat

For virgin hopes and for desires sublime ;

And the deluded mortal doth prepare

For all the labours of his days to come,

As if they were a joyous festival

And gay carousah — ^ut I scarcely saw,

Love, thine approach, than Fortune harsh destroyed

The tenour of my life, and to these eyes

Nought else was seemly than eternal tears.

But if at times along the simny meads

In early mom, or when meridian rays

On hills and plains and houses shed their light,

I see the features of a maiden fair ;

Or when in thè imtroubled quietude

Of Summer night my vagrant steps proceed

And guide me to the walls of near abodes,

H — 2

icx) Poems of Leopardi,

And I behold the lonely scene, and hear
A maiden's thrilling voice, who in the hours
Of silent night accompanies her work
With joyous lay ; emotion moves my heart
That seemed a stone ; but it, alas ! returns
Ere long to wonted gloom : a stranger now
Is every tender feeling to my soul.

O beauteous moon, unto whose tranquil ray
The forest things display their love ; and in
The early dawn the hunter doth complain,
Finding their traces intricate and false.
Erroneous led astray : hail, O benign
Nocturnal Queen I Unwelcome falls thy light
In lonely wood or mountainous recess
Or ruined building empty, on the steel
Of pallid bandit, who with eager ears
Hearkens afar unto the sound of wheels
And horses' hoofs, or to the steps that tread
The quiet road ; then suddenly advancing,
With clanking arms, and with a rough, rude voice^
And with death-boding looks, chills with alarm
The wanderer's heart, and leaves him on the earth
Despoiled and well-nigh dead. Unwelcome come&
Within the city precincts, thy clear light

Poems of Leopardi. loi

To paramour ignoble, who doth lurk

Near walls and portals, hiding in the shade

Of secret gloom, and standing still and dreading

The lamps that through the windows pour their ray,

And peopled halls. Unwelcome to base minds.

To me benign for ever shall thy sight

Amid the regions be, where nothing else
Than happy hills and spacious fields thou showest
Unto my gaze. And even I was wont.
Though innocent my soul, to accuse thy ray
Divinely fair in scenes inhabited,
When offering me unto the sight of men,
And showing human forms unto mine eye.
Now shall I praise it ever, when I gaze
Upon thee sailing 'mid the clouds, or thou
Serenest ruler of ethereal spheres.
Art looking down upon the abode of earth.
Thou oft shalt see me, taciturn and lone.
Wandering in bowers, or through the verdant meads.
Or on the grass reclining, well content
If I have leisure from deep heart to sigh.

I02 Poems of Leopardi,

TO HIS LOVE.

Loved beauty, who afar,
Or hiding thy sweet face,
Inspirest me with amorous delight,
Unless in slumberous night,
A sacred shade my dreamy visions trace
Or when the day doth grace
Our verdant meads and fair is Nature's smile :
The age, devoid of guile.

Perchance thou blessedst, which we golden style.
And now amid the race
Of men thou fliest, light as shadows are.
Ethereal soul ? Or did beguiling Fate
Bid thee, veiled from our eyes, the future times await ?

To gaze on thee alive

The hope henceforth is flown,

Unless that time when naked and alone

Upon new paths unto a dwelling strange

Poems of Leopardi. 103

My spirit shall proceed. When dawn did rive

The early clouds of my tempestuous day,

Methought thou wouldst upon earth's barren soil

Be the companion of mine arduous range.

But there is nought we on our globe survey

Resembling thee ; and if with careful toil

We could discover any like to thee,

She would less beauteous be,

Though much of thine in face, in limb, and voice we'd
see.

Amid the floods of woe
That Fate hath given to our years below,
If son of man thy beauty did adore.
Even such as I conceive it in my mind.
He would existence, so unblessed before.
Sweet and delightful find ;
And clearly doth to me my spirit tell
That I to praise and glory would aspire,
As in mine early years, for love of thee.
But Heaven hath not deemed well
To grant a solace to our misery ;
And linked to thee, existence would acquire
Such beauty as on high doth bless the heavenly choir.

I04 Poems of Leopardi.

Amid the shady vale
Where sounds the rustic song
Of the laborious tiller of the soil,
Where seated I bewail
The youthful error that was with me long,
But now doth far recoil ;
And on the hills where I, remembering, weep
The lost desires and the departed hope
Of my sad days, the thought of thee doth keep
My heart from death, and gives life further scope.
Could I in this dark age and evil air,
Preserve thine image in my soul most deep,
'Twere joy enough, for truth can never be our share.

If an eternal thought

Thou art, whom ne'er with mortal, fragile frame

Eternal Wisdom suffers to be fraught.

Or to become the prey

Of all the sorrows of death-bringing life ;

Or if another globe,

Amid the innumerable worlds that flame

On high when Night displays her dusky robe,

Poems of Leopardi. 105

Thy beauty doth convey ;
Or star, near neighbour of the sun, doth leave
Its Ught on thee while gentler breezes play :
From where the days are short and dark with strife,
This hymn of an unknown adorer, oh receive !

io6 Poems of Leopardi.

THE REVIVAL.

I thought that in me utterly
In life's most fragrant flower
The sweet woes had lost power,

Born in my early years.
The sweet woes and the tenderest

Sighs of the heart profound,

»

All things whereby a ground
For joy in life appears.

How many tears and murmurings
Did from my new state flow.
When I my heart of snow

Discovered void of pain !
Gone was the wonted agony,
And love I could not hold.
And this my bosom cold

Gave sighing up as vain.

Poems of Leopardi, 107

I wept that life so desolate
And waste for me was made,
The earth in gloom arrayed,

Closed in eternal frost ;
The day forlorn, the taciturn
Night more obscure and lone ;
For me no kind moon shone ;

The stars in Heaven were lost.

But of that grief the origin
In old affection lay ;
Within my bosom's sway

My heart was still alive.
Yet for the wonted images
The weary fancy sighed ;
My sorrow's boundless tide

With pain did ever strive.

Ere long in me that agony
Of pain was wholly spent,
And further to lament
I had no courage left.

io8 Poems of Leopardi.

I lay all senseless and amazed»
I did not ask for balm ;
As though in death's last calm,
My heart in twain was cleft.

I was from him how different,
In whom did ardours shine,
Who errors all divine

Fed in his soul of yore !
The early swallow vigilant,
Who near the windows gay
Salutes the rising day,
/ Moved this my heart no more ;

Nor did the Autumn pale and sere
Where lonely I might dwell ;
Nor did the evening bell ;

Nor sun that sought the main.
In vain I saw bright Hesperus
Shine in celestial round,
In vain the valleys sound

With nightingale's sweet pain.

Poems of Leopardi, 109

And ye, O eyes of tenderness
And glances full of joy,
Ye, unto lovers coy

First love that never dies ;
And snowy hand of whitest grace
That liest in my own ;
In vain your power is shown.

My gloomy mood ne'er flies.

Bereft of every happiness,
Sad, but not tempest-torn,
I was not all forlorn.

My brow became serene.
I should have murmured for the end
Of this my life of woe.
If in me long ago

Dead had desire not been.

As in old age decrepitude
Makes life disprized and bare.
My years of youth most fair

Thus, thus alone were spent ;

no Poems of Leopardi.

'Twas thus the days ineffable
Thou, O my heart, didst Uve,
Days that short joyaunce give.
By Heaven to us lent.

I

I
I
j

Who the obscure, inglorious
Repose bids me now miss ?
What virtue new is this,

This that in me I find ?
Emotions sweet, imaginings
Erroneous and sublime.
Are ye not for all time

The exiles of my mind ?

Are ye in truth the only ray
Of these my sable years.
The loves I lost with tears

In a more tender age ?
Though on the sky or verdant meads
Or where I list, I gaze,
Grief doth my soul amaze,

And yet delights assuage.

Poems of Leoparat, 1 1 1

And with my musing sympathize
The plains, the woods and hills ;
My heart doth hear the rills,

And murmur of the sea.
Who after such forgetfulness
Gives me the gift of tears ?
How is it the earth appears

So changed and new to me ? [

Perchance fair Hope, O weary heart,
Hath granted thee a smile ?
Ah ! Hope, so full of guile,

I'll ne'er again behold.
My fond delusions and desires
None else than Nature gave.
My native ardour brave

Grief did in bondage hold.

Though not destroy : 'twas unsubdued
By misery and fate.
Nor did it death await

From Truth's unhallowed gaze.

112 Poems of Leopardi.

To my divine imagining
I know that shq is strange ;
I know that Nature's range

Lies far from Mercy's ways ;

That not for weal solicitous
She is, for life alone ;
She bids us live to groan,

For nothing else she cares.
I know that the unfortunate
No pity find below,
That from the sight of woe

Men hurry unawares ;

That this our age so reprobate
Scorns virtue and renown ;
That glory fails to crown

The noble, learned toil.
And you, ye eyes so tremulous,
Ye glances all divine,
I know you idly shine.

And far from love recoil.

Poems of Leopardi. 113

There is no wondrous, intimate
Affection in your gaze ;
No spark ere long to blaze,

Lies in that snowy breast ;
For it doth mock the tenderest
Emotion and desire ;
And a celestial fire

By deep scorn is distrest.

And yet in me I feel revive
The dear illusions known :
My soul looks on its own V

Sensations with surprise.
From thee, my heart, this last and fair x
Spirit and inborn fire, /

All comforts in my dire

Grief, but from thee arise.

I feel my spirit is not dowered,
Though lofty, sweet, and pure.
By Nature, Fortune's lure.
The world, or loveliness :

114 Poems of Leopardi. J

But if thou livest, O, ill-starred,

And jdeldest not to Fate, <.

I'll ne'er as cruel hate

Who gave me life's distress.

i

Poems of Leopardi. 115

TO SILVIA.

Silvia, rememberest thou

Yet that sweet time of thine abode on earth,

When beauty graced thy brow

And fired thine eyes, so radiant and so gay ;

And thou, so joyous, yet of pensive mood,

Didst pass on youth's fair way ?

The chambers calm and still.
The sunny paths around.
Did to thy song resound.
When thou, upon thy handiwork intent.
Wast seated, full of joy

At the fair future where thy hopes were bound.
It was the fragrant month of flowery May,
And thus went by thy day.

I — 2

1 1 6 Poems of Leopardi.

I leaving oft behind
The labours and the vigils of my mind,
That did my life consume,
And of my being far the best entomb.
Bade from the casement of my father's house
Mine ears give heed unto thy silver song.
And to thy rapid hand

That swept with skill the spinning thread along.
I watched the sky serene,
The radiant ways and flowers.
And here the sea, the mountain there, expand.
No mortal tongue can tell
What made my bosom swell.

\

What thoughts divinely sweet,
What hopes, O Silvia ! and what souls were ours \
In what guise did we meet
Our destiny and life ?
When I remember such aspfring flown.
Fierce pain invades my soul.
Which nothing can console,
And my misfortune I again bemoan.

Poems of Leopardi, 1 1 7

O Nature, void of ruth,

Why not give some return

For those fair promises ? Why full of fraud

Thy wretched offspring spurn ?

Thou ere the herbs by winter were destroyed,
Led to the grave by an unknown disease,
Didst perish, tender blossom : thy life's flower
Was not by thee enjoyed ;
Nor heard, thy heart to please,
The admiration of thy raven hair
Or of the enamoured glances of thine eyes ;
Nor thy companions in the festive hour
Spoke of love's joys and sighs.

Ere long my hope as well
Was dead and gone. By cruel Fate's decree
Was youthfulness denied
Unto my years. Ah me !
How art -thou past for aye.
Thou dear companion of my earlier day,
My hope so much bewailed I
Is this the world ? Are these

1 1 8 Poems of Leopardi,

The joys, the loves, the labours and the deeds

Whereof so often we together spoke ?

Is this the doom to which mankind proceeds ?

When truth before thee lay

Revealed, thou sankest ; and thy dying hand

Pointed to death, a figure of cold gloom.

And to a distant tomb.

\

Poems of Leopardi. 119

THE MEMORIES.

Ye stars of Ursa's sign, I did not think
I should return, as formerly, to gaze
Upon you, shining on my father's garden.
And with you to hold parley from the windows
Of this old mansion where in youth I dwelt.
And of my joys beheld the bitter end.
How many strange imaginings of yore
Your aspect and the stars that near you shine,
Created in my thoughts when 'twas i^y wont.
In silence wrapped, on verdant sward reclining.
To pass the hours of evening, gazing long
Upon the sky and listening to the sound
That issued from frog-haunted marshes far.
'Twas then the glow-worm hovered round the hedges
And o'er the beds of flowers ; while to the wind
The fragrant alleys rustled, and beyond
The cypress forest moaned ; and 'neath our roof

— v"

1 20 Poems of Leopardi.

Voices proceeded, and the quiet work

Of the attendants. And what thoughts immense,

What sweetest dreams inspired me at the view

Of that far-distant sea, those azure mottntains.

Which yonder I discern, and which some day

I hoped to cross, an unknown world, unknown

Felicity depicting to my years !

My destiny ignoring, and how oft

This life of mine, so painful and so bare,

I willingly with death would have exchanged !

Nor did my heart foretell I should be doomed
To consummate my youthful years in this
My native hamlet rude ; amid a race

«

Ribaldrous, vile ; to which are names most strange,
And often themes of mockery and jibes.
Learning and science ; and it hates and shuns me.
Not out of envy, for it does not deem
My worth superior, but because it knows
That in my heart I think so, though thereof
An outward sign to none I ever gave.
Here do I pass my years, abandoned, hidden,
And without love or life ; and needs amid

Poems of Leopardi. 1 2 1

A rabble so malignant, bitter grow ; '
Here I discard all pity and all virtue,
And a despiser of mankind become,
Because of those "Ground me ; and, meanwhile.
The cherished time of youth escapes, more dear
Than fame or laurels, dearer than the pure
Radiance of day and vital breath ; I lose thee
Without a joy, and uselessly, in this
Inhuman dwelling-place, immersed in woes,
Of barren life thou solitary flower !

I hear the wind that wafts the striking time
From yonder village-clock. I well remember
That sound was the sole comfort to my nights.
When as a child, in darkness of my room,
I passed a sleepless vigil, full of terrors,
Sighing for day. Around me there is nothing
I see or hear, whence fancies ol^ do not
Return, or sweet remembrances arise,
^Sweet in themselves ; but full of pain appears
The present to my mind, the vain desire
For what is past, though sad, the thought ** I was!"
Yon loggia, turned towards the dying light

122 Poems of Leopardi.

Of the expiring day ; these pictured walls,
Those herds that live in paintings and the sun
O'er lonely country rising, to my leisure
Gave many joys, what time my mighty error
Beside me stood, wherever I might be.
Prompting my heart.. Here in these ancient halls^
When shone the snow without, and stormy blasts
Were whistling round these ample windows high,.
My pleasures had their scene, and my gay laugh
Re-echoed in that time when we suppose
The bitter, cruel mystery of things
Entirely sweet ; an inexperienced lover,
Admiring heavenly beauty he conceives.
The youth pays court unto his life which yet
Before him lies untasted, unconsumed.

Ye hopes, ye vanished hopes, ye sweet illusions-
Of my beginning years ! always in song
To you I come ; and although time doth fly,
And thoughts do change, and even affections vary^
Forget you, I shall never. Shades, I know,
Are glory and honour, riches and delight,
Merest desire ; life doth not yield a fruit,
Tis useless misery. And although empty

Poems of Leopardi, 123

Are these my years, and desolate and dark

My lot on earth, I see that fortune keeps

Little from me. Alas ! but when my thoughts

Recur to you, oh ye my ancient hopes !

And to my fond imagining of yore,

And then consider my existence, made

So painful and so vile that death is all

That of such high aspiring still is mine :

I feel my heart contract, I feel that wholly

There is no consolation for my fate.

And when at last this long implored for death

Shall come to me, and thus the end be reached

Of all my woes ; when to my soul this earth

Shall be a vale remote ; and from my sight

The future shall escape : of ye in truth

I will be mindful, and even then your image

Will make me sigh, will make the thought most bitter

That I^ have lived in vain, and even the sweetness

Of dying it will temper with affliction.

Even in the earliest youthful turbulence
Of happiness, of anguish, of desire,
I often called for death ; and long I sat
Out there, upon the margin of yon fountain,

1 24 Poems of Leopardi.

And thought of ending in that lucid stream
My hope and pain. But soon Misfortune blind
Conducted me through life's most various maze,
And I then wept for youth and for the flower
Of my ill-fated days, that ere its time
Withered ; and often through belated hours
Upon my bed reclining, mournfully
Conning my verses at the lamp's dim ray.
With silence and with night I did lament
My spirit flying hence, and on myself
In languid pain a funeral dirge I sang.

Who without sighing can remember ye,
O early dawn of youth, O happy days
Charming beyond narration ? When on man
Fair women first do smile and make him blest
With tokens of their love ; when all around
Is radiant ; when even envy still is silent.
Not yet roused, or else kind ; and when it seems.
Oh unaccustomed miracle ! the world
Doth oflier him a helping, generous hand.
Forgives his errors, celebrated his new
Arrival in this life, and full of homage
Appears to hail him and receive him lord ?

Poems of Leopardi. 125

Ah fleeting days ! As swift as lightning's flash
They disappear. And who of those on earth
Can be to woe a stranger, if for him
That season is no more, if his fair time,
If youth, ah youth I for evermore be gone ?

O my Nerina 1 a^d perchance of thee

These scenes I hear not tell ? Art thou perchance

Fallen from my recollection ? Where art thou,

That here of thee the memory alone

I find, my sweetest love ? This native soil

Sees thee no more ; that window, whence thy wont

It was to hold discourse with me, and whence

Sadly the starry radiance is reflected,

Is desolate. Where art thou, that no more

I hear thy voice as in a former day.

When every distant accent from thy lips

That reached mine ear, had in it such a charm.

It changed my hue ? Those times are gone. Those
days

Are over, my adored. Thou passedst. Others

By Fate ay: e now allowed on earth to live

And make their dwelling 'mid these fragrant hills.

But far too rapidly thy life did end.

1 20 Poems of Leopardi.

Even as a dream. It was thy wont to dance,

And on thy brow shone joy, and in thine eyes

That fond imagining, that radiant light

Of youth, when Fate extinguished them, and thou

Didst lie in death. Ah me, Nerina I Still

The old love reigns in my heart. If I at times

To festive pleasures go, unto myself

I say : ** Alas, Nerina 1 For such joys

Thou dost no more array thee, nor proceed."

If May returns, and flowers and roundelays

The lovers offer to their well-beloved,

I say, "Nerina mine ! for thee no more

Doth Spring return, nor do the sweets of love."

Each day serene in beauty, and each bed

Of flowers I see, each joyaunce that I feel,

I say : " Nerina now no more enjoys them,

Nor sees the earth and sky." Ah, thou art gone,

Thou my eternal sigh, gone : and united

With all my musings, with my tenderest feelings,

And with the heart's emotions, sad yet dear.

Shall be for aye the bitter memory.

Poems of Leopardi. 127

THE NOCTURNAL SONG

OF A

NOMADIC SHEPHERD IN ASIA.

Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high ? O say,

Thou silent Moon serene !

At night thou dost proceed,

Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest.

Hast thou ne'er weary been

Of repursuing the everlasting way ?

Untired as yet, still takest thou delight

On earth to turn thy sight ?

Even as thy life on high.

The shepherd's life doth fly.

When dawn succeeds to night.

He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze.

He sees the grass and flowers.

And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours,

Nor other hope doth raise.

Say, Moon, what boots his life

I 28 Poems of Leopardi,

To humble swain, or thy

Divine existence unto thee on high ?

Where doth my life below,

Thy course immortal go ?

Even as an old man bent,

Ragged and white of hair.

Whose aching shoulders grievous fardels bear,

0*er mountains and through vales,

O'er pointed rocks, through sandy wastes, through
marshes,

A prey to winds, to tempests, to fierce heat,

To snow, to ice, to sleet.

Still toils upon his way.

Through sloughs and torrents goes,

Falls, rises, hurries as though time were brief,

Without rest or relief.

Footsore and suffering, until he arrives

Where his long path did tend.

Where all his weary wandering finds an end :

A dread abyss profound

Where dark oblivion grasps him as her prey :

Thou virgin Moon, even so

Is this our life below.

Poems of Leopardi. 129

r

Man draws for toil his breath,
And birth itself is on the verge of death.
In pain and suffering dire
His days begin, and in life's early morn
His mother and his sire
Try to console him that he e'er was born.
As he in years doth grow,
They help him onwards, and for ever strive.
By action and by word,
To keep his. hope alive.
And to console him for our fate below :
Nor any way more kind
Their fondness to display, can parents find. '
But why give to the light.
Why with life animate
A wretched spirit ever seeking balm ?
If heavy be our fate.
Why do we bear its weight ?
O virgin Moon, even so
Is this our life below.
But thou in region calm
Dost little heed upon my wail bestow^

Eternal pilgrim on thy lonely way,
Who full of thought dost shed thy silver ray.

130 Poems of Leopardi.

Perchance to thee well known

Are life and suffering and distressful moan ;

Thow knowest what is death, what the supreme

Grey pallor of the face,

The earth that leaveth not a mental trace,

And the awakening from our life's deep dream.

And thou, in truth, dost see

The cause of things, and what the fruit may be

Of morning and of night.

And of Time's silent, never-ending flight.

Thou knowest, in truth, what tender love and sweet

Spring with its buds doth greet.

Why summer heats arise, and what device

Brings winter with its ice.

A thousand things vmto thy soul are plain,

Which are but riddles to the simple swain.

Oft when I see thee shine

In lonely sphere and solemn state divine

Upon our waste that stretches to the skies ;

Or when my flock I lead

And see thy radiance on my path proceed,

And when the stars' clear rays attract mine eyes,

Within my soul I say :

« What means so many a ray 7

Poems of Leopardi. 131

Where goes the wind ? what booteth in the sky

The endless space serene ? What is the thought

Of this vast solitude, and what am I ?"

Thus my amazement to express I sought,

Nor of the proud abode.

Too vast in size, nor of the unnumbered race,

Nor of the labours and the powers that goad

All things of earth and of the realms divine.

Revolving without rest,

To be again where they commenced their road :

Of all I cannot trace

The use or meaning. Surely thou art blest

With deeper lore, who in the spheres dost shine.

I only know and

Of all the skies reveal,

Of my frail life below,

That unto me existence is but woe.

O thou, my flock that liest in repose 1
Thrice blessed thou, unconscious of distress !
How much I envy thee I
Nor merely that from woes
Thy destiny is free,
Nor that all things unkind,

K — 2

132 Poems of Leopardi,

AH sudden fears soon vanish from thy mind ;

But most because thou knowest not weariness.

When lying on a grassy plot in shade,

Thou art contented made.

A long part of the year

Thus flies by thee, and not a care is near.

And I as well on grassy plot in shade

My body oft have laid ;

But weariness lies heavy on my soul ;

And, seated, I am further from the goal

Of peace and sweet repose.

And yet I yearn for nought.

Nor have I any reason for my woes.

What makes thy happy state

I cannot say ; but thou art fortunate.

And I have little joy,^

My flock ; nor therein lies my yhole annoy.

If thou couldst speak. Va ask

Why, lying in calm shade, -

All beasts are happy made ;

But when I leisure know

I am assailed'by weariness and woe ?

If wings perchance had I
Above the clouds to fly.

Poems of Leopardi, 133

And one by one the radiant stars to count,

Or like fierce thunder o'er the crags to roam,

I should be happier, thou my gentle flock,

I should be happier, virgin Moon on high.

Or else, perchance, my thought

By vagrant dreams is full of errors fraught ;

Perchance in every form

That Nature may on everything bestow,

The day of birth brings everlasting woe.

134 Poems of Leopardi,

THE RULING THOUGHT.

Omnipotent and kind,

Lord of the deep recesses of my mind ;

In terrors clad, yet dear

Gift of the skies ; so near

In my gloom-darkened days.

Thought upon which so oft I fix my gaze :

Thy nature unrevealed
Who doth not contemplate ? Who wears a shield
Impervious to thy power ?
Though tongue of man must say
What passion in his bosom beareth sway,
All thou may'st utter seemeth new for aye.

Poems of Leopardi. 135

How like a hermit lone
Was this my spirit made

Even from the time thou didst my mind invade I
As rapidly as lightnings flash and die,
My other thoughts did fade,
Not one remaining. Like a strong tower, high
On solitary plain,
Thou, lonely giant, o'er my soul dost reign.

What to my visionary gaze became
All things of earth, and all
That life can j|[iye^ alone excepting thee !
How on my spirit pall
The labours and the leisure.
And vain desiring of still vainer pleasure.
Compared unto that joy.
That heavenly joy, which maketh thee my treasure !

As from the naked peaks
Of -rugged Appenine,

With longing gaze the weary pilgrim seeks
The verdant meads that in the distance shine :
Thus from the harsh and dry

136 Poems of Leopardi.

Scene of the world, to thee I gladly fly,
As to a beauteous garden, and I find
Thy fair abode unto my spirit kind.

I scarcely can believe
That I this life and our ignoble world
For years of weary length
Without thee had the strength
To bear. Hard to conceive
It is that men aspire,
Ignoring thee, to many a vain desire.

Ne'er from the hour when first
Experience taught me what this life can be,
Did fear of death bring terror to my heart ;
And now a jest to me
Seems what the world so base
At times extols, but never dare s to fac e.
The necessary end :
If any peril falleth to my part.
Before its threat my spirit doth not bend.

I always held in scorn
The craven and the mean ;

Poems of Leopardi. 137

Now every deed, of lowly baseness born,

Doth move my spirit keen ;

My soul doth flash with ire

When human vileness desolates my view.

This haughty age untrue,

Feeding itself on barren hopes and vain,
^"TTo foliy ge ntle, ^a njjn virtue (Wxe^
^^hat asks for things of use.

Nor sees by what abufie

I loathe, arising o'er

Its meanness. Human acts I ne'er esteem ;

The crowd that doth disdain

Thy loveliness, in all I worthless deem.

What passion doth not yield
To that inspired by thee ?
The one thou hast revealed
Alone rules man in sovran majesty.
Pride, hatred, avarice and fierce disdain,
The zeal to shine and reign,
What else than shadows vain
Are they beside it ? One affection lives
Among our race below,

138 Poems of Leopardi.

By laws eternal sent

To rule mankind, a lord omnipotent.

Life hath no meaning and not one delight
Except from that which unto man is all,
The sole excuse of Fate
Who placed on earthly soil
Our race to languish in such fruitless toil ;
Whereby alone at times,
Not to the rabble, but the gentle heart.
Life more than death appears the better part*
To cull thy joys, O thought divinely sweet !
The weight of human woes,
Of life the weary chain.
Were not endured in utter anguish vain ;
And I would even return.
Versed as I am in every earthly ill,
For such a goal to repursue the road.
Of viper's sting and of the sands that bum
I never felt the goad
So much, that, coming unto thy relief,
It gave no balm unto terrestrial grief.

What wondrous worlds, what new
Immensities, what Paradise is there,

Poems of Leopardi. 139

Where oft thy wizard power my spirit dr ew

In lofty flights, and where

By other radiance than on earth e'er shined,

■

I stray, nor to my mind
My earthly state recall, nor truth unkind I
Such are, methinks, the dreams
Of the immortals. Ah I a dream, in sooth.
Thou art, sweet thought, a garment to adorn
Harsh and unlovely truth.
An error palpable. But even of those
^ Fair errors Nature shows.

Thou art divine, because so strong and deep,
That 'gainst the real thou thy ground dost keep ;
i Thy power its equal seems,
' And only in death from mortal spirit goes.

)

And thou, indeed, my thought, unto my days
Alone the vital breath.
Thou cherished cause of infinite despair.
With me shalt fall beneath the stroke of death :
I gather from the signs my soul displays
That thou shalt reign, eternal monarch, there.
All other errors, sweet
Disperse on pinions fleet

140 Poems of Leopardi,

At Truth's approach. And even the more I turn

Upon her brow to gaze,

Of whom with thee discoursing my days fly,

The more the joyaunce grows,

The frenzy wild whence my existence flows.

AngeUc loveliness !

The fairest face that ever met mine eye,

Methinks like image vain

Attempts to rival thee. Thou art alone

The fountain and the spring

Of every charm that can enchantment bring.

From when I saw thee first,
What other care did ever prompt my heart
Than love of thee ? How much of day doth part
Without a thought of thine ? In sleep immerst,
When lay my weary soul
By dreams unhaimted of thy sovran form ?
As beautiful as dreams
Thy angel vision seems.
On earth below or in the distant spheres :
What hope to me appears
Of finding aught more lovely than thine eyes,
Or sweeter joyaunce than thy thought supplies ?

Poems of Leopardi. 141

LOVE AND DEATH.

" He dies in youth who to the gods is dear."

Mbnandbr.

Brethren at one time, Love and Death, did Fate

Of yore ingenerate.

Nought fairer here below

Hath this our world, nor have the stars, to show.

Joys from the one do flow.

The greatest joys that we

Can in the ocean of existence see.

The other every pain

And every woe bids wane.

A maiden fair of face,

Sweet to behold, not such

As doth imagine this our craven race.

She likes to join full oft

The youthful god of love,

142 Poems of Leopardi.

And both then fly aloft,

The paths of earth above,

Chief comfort of each wise and noble heart ;

Nor was a heart more wise

Than when by love inspired ;

Nor in a braver mood

This life of woe and anguish to despise,

Nor for a lord more high

Than this one is, each danger to defy :

For where thou giv*st thine aid.

Love, courage soon is made,

Or doth revive ; in noble actions wise

And not, as it is wont, in idle mind.

Becomes our humankind.

When in the heart profound
Ariseth young and new
An amorous desire,

A weary, languid longing for the grave
Our bosom doth inspire :
How, I know not ; but such
Of real love the first effect is found.
Perchance our eyes we cast
Upon the desert of the world aghast,

Poems of Leopardi, 143

And mortal man his habitation loathes

Without that joy supreme

Whereof his soul doth dream ;

But in his heart foreboding tempests wild

From that same joy, he sighs for quiet mild

And for a harbour's ease

That should the storm appease,

Of which he felt such wild emotions vast.

And when with vivid fire
The passion burns the heart,
And an imperishable empire gains :
How many times, O Death,
With an intense desire
The lover prays thee to conclude his pains !
How oft by night, how oft
By day, impatient of his weary frame,
He would have called his destiny divine,
If he had ne'er arisen.
Nor seen again the unpitying planets shine I
AiRl oft when tolled the deep funereal knell,
And sang the dirge beside the sable hearse
That bears the dead to their eternal night,
With many burning sighs

144 Poems of Leopardi.

From deepest heart he envied the repose
Of him who went among the tombs to dwelL
'Even they of low degree :
The tiller of the soil,

All strength ignoring that from wisdom flows.
The tender maiden, full of fear and shame.
Who at the very name
Of Death was wont to quake :
The gloomy horrors of the dreaded grave
Oft overcome with fortitude most brave,
Long thoughtful of the means
That end all earthly woes.
And in uncultured mind
The wondrous beauty of expiring find.
So much to death inclined
The power of love appears ; and many a time,
To such a height the furious tempest risen
That it breaks through the trammels of its prison»
The body worn and frail
Yields to the storm, and Death we see prevail
Even in that guise through her fraternal power ;
Or Love so deeply stirs the heart to ire,
That by their deed the rustic, void of guile,
And tender maiden fair

Poems of Leopardi* 145

In agonised despair

Their lives destroy when youth doth 00 them smile.

The world doth mock their end,

To whom may Heaven peace and old age send.

To fervent, to sublime,
To daring souls august.
May one or both of ye kind Fortune yield,

friends and lords, and shield
Of this our humankind.

Ye to whose power no rival power we find
Throughout the world, where we our eyes may cast,
Unless in Fate, so terrible and vast.
And thou, whom even from earliest days of yore

1 honour and implore,
Thou beauteous Death, alone

Of all the world to earthly woes benign I

If e*er to thee Fve shown

My love in song, if to thy sway divine

I tried to expiate

Unthankful scorn and hate,
I Delay no more, incline

I To an unwonted prayer.

Close from the light's harsh glare

\ L

146 Poems of Leopardi,

These tear- worn eyes, O sovereign of our fate !

Me thou shalt find, whatever be the day

When at my moan thou shalt thy wings display»

With an undaunted brow,

'Gainst Fortune fortified,

The ruthless hand that with my guileless gore

Is crimsoned o*er and o*er.

Not covering with praise,

Not blessing, as the ways

Of men dictate, whom ancient errors guide ;

All idle hopes that may console them now

Like children in their grief.

And every comfort brief

I'll spurn : nought else than thee in any age

Implore my woes to assuage ;

Hope but that day's relief

When I, serene, my head can lay to rest

Upon thy virgin breast.

Poems of Leopardi. .i^y

TO HIMSELF.

Now shalt thou rest for aye,

My weary heart. The final error dies

Wherewith I nourished my divinest dreams.

*Tis gone. I feel in me for sweet delusions

Not merely hope, but even desire, is dead.

Rest for all time. Enough

Hath been thine agitation. There is nought

So precious, thou shouldst seek it ; and the earth

Deserveth not a sigh. But weary bitterness

Is life, nought else, and ashes is the world.

Be now at peace. Despair

For the last time. Unto our race did Fate

Give nought, save death. Now hold in scorn and
hate

Thyself and Nature and the power unknown,

That reigns supreme unto the grief of all.

And the vast vanity of this terrestrial ball.

L — 2

148 Poems of Leopardi.

ASPASIA.
Again at times appeareth to my thought
Thy semblance, O Aspasia I either flashing
Across my path amid the haunts of men
In other forms ; or 'mid deserted fields
When shines the sun or tranquil host of stars,
As by the sweetest harmony awoke,
Arising in my soul which seems once more
To yield unto that vision all superb.
How much adored, O Heaven I of yore how fully
The joyaunce and the halo of my life ?
I never meet the perfiime of the gardens,
Or of the flowers that cities may display,
Without beholding thee as thou appearedst
Upon that day, when in thy splendid rooms
Which gave the perfume of the sweetest flowers
Of recent Spring, arrayed in robes that bore
The violet's hue, fii*st thine angelic form
Did meet my gaze as thou, reclining, layest

.'•s

Poems of Leopardi. 149

On strange, white furs, and deep, voluptuous charm

Seemed to be thine, whilst thou, a skilled enchantress

Of loving hearts, upon the rosy lips

Of thy fair children many a fervent kiss

Imprintedst, bending down to them thy neck

Of snowy beauty, and with lovely hand

Their guileless forms, unconscious of thy wile.

Clasping unto thy bosom, so desired.

Though hidden. To the visions of my soul

Another sky and more entrancing world

And radiance as from heaven were revealed.

Thus in my heart, though not unarmed, thy power

Infixed the arrow which I wounded bore.

Until that day when the revolving earth

A second time her yearly course fulfilled.

A ray divine unto my thought appeared.
Lady, thy beauty. Similar effects
Beauty and music's harmony produce.
Revealing both the mysteries sublime
Of unknown Eden. Thence the loving soul.
Though injured in his love, adores the birth
Of his fond mind, the amorous idea
That doth include Olympus in its range.
And seems in face, in manner, and in speech

* *

1 50 Poems of Leopardi,

Like unto her whom the enchanted lover
Fancies alone to cherish and admire.
Not her, but that sweet image, he doth clasp
Even in the raptures of a fond embrace,
At last his error and the objects changed
Perceiving, wrath invades him, and he oft
Wrongly accuses her he thought he loved.
The mind of woman to that lofty height
Rarely ascends, and what her charms inspire
She little thinks and seldom understands.
So frail a mind can harbour no such thought -,
In vain doth man, deluded by the light
Of those enthralling eyes, indulge in hope ;
I In vain he asks for deep and hidden thoughts,
/ Transcending mortal ken, of her to whom
Hath Nature's laws a lesser rank assigned.
For as her frame less strength than man*s received,.
So too her mind less energy and depth. ''"'^ -

Nor thou as yet what inspirations vast
Within my thought thy loveliness aroused,
Aspasia, could'st conceive. Thou little knowest
What love immeasured and what woes intense,
What frenzy wild and feelings without name,

Poems of Leopardi, 151

Thou didst within me move, nor shall the time
Appear when thou canst know it. Equally
The skilled performer ignorant remains
Of what with hand or voice he doth arouse
Within his hearers. That Aspasia now
Isdfiad,.>^.hom I so worshipped. She lies low
For evermore, once idol of my life :
Unless at times, a cherished shade, she rises,
Ere long to vanish. Thou art still alive.
Not merely lovely, but of such perfection
That, as I think, thou dost eclipse the rest.
But now the ardour, born of thee, is spent :
Because I loved not thee, but that fair goddess
Who had her H welling in me»_nqw_herjgrave. ^
Her long I worshipped, and so was I pleased
By her celestial loveliness, that I,
Even from the first full conscious and aware
Of what thou art, so wily and so false.
Beholding in thine eyes the light of hers.
Fondly pursued thee while she lived in me ;
Not dazzled or deluded ; but induced
By the enjoyment of that sweet resemblance,
A long and bitter slavery to bear.

Now boast, for well thou may'st ; say that alone

152 Poems of Leopardi.

Of all thy sex art thou to whom I bent

My haughty head, to whom I gladly gave

My heart in homage. Say that thou wert first

And last, I truly hope, to see mine eyes*

Imploring gaze, and me before thee stand

Timid and fearful (as I write, I burn

With wrath and shame) ; me of myself deprived,

Each look of thine, each gesture and each word

Observing meekly ; at thy haughty freaks

Pale and subdued ; then radiant with delight

At any sign of favour ; changing hue

At every glance of thine. The charm is gone ;

And with it shattered, falls the heavy yoke.

Whence I rejoice. Though weariness be with me,

Yet after such delirium and long thraldom,

Gladly my freedom I again embrace.

And my unshackled mind. For if a life

Void of affections and of errors sweet.

Be like a starless night in winter's depth.

Revenge sufficient and sufficient balm

It is to me that here upon the grass

Leisurely lying and unmoved, I gaze

On sky, earth, ocean, and serenely smile.

Poems of Leopardi. 153

ON AN ANCIENT SEPULCHRAL BASSO

RILIEVO

Representing a Maiden Taking Leave of Her

Friends.

Where goest thou, and what imperious voice

Calls thee away from love,

Thou maiden fair of face ?

Why, lonely wanderer, from thy native place

Dost thou depart before thy days are old ?

Say, wilt thou ne'er return ? No more rejoice

Whom round thee now thou dost in tears behold ?

Thou weepest not, and dauntless is thy brow,
Though sadness on thy features leaves a trace.
If life hath pleasing or unjoyous been.
If dark with gloom or bright with joy the place
To which thou hurriest now,

154 Poems of Leopardi,

Is by no sign upon thy features seen.

Alas ! I cannot find

Solution of the problem in my mind :

Nor can our race below

With full assurance know

If Heaven to thee doth gentle favour show,

Or unrelenting ire,

Or if thy doom be fortunate or dire.

Death summons thee. The dawning of thy days
Beholds their early close.
The home thy footsteps leave
Shall ne'er again thy beauteous form receive.
On thy fond parents thou no more shalt gaze;
Beneath the earth thy future home is laid.
Where for all time thy dwelling shall be made.
It may be, thou art blest : but on thy doom
Who meditates, must sigh in bitter gloom.

The light ne'er to have seen,
Methinks would be the best. But, being born^
When beauty first begins to reign, a queen,
And the fair form to adorn,
And meets eternal praise.

Poems of Leopardi. 155

And many a fervent and adoring gaze ;

When Hope her fragrant buds begins to show,

And ere the beauteous land and sky around

Unpitying Truth in darkness doth confound :

To find, like vaporous and ethereal clouds

That in frail shapes on the horizon play,

The future fly, as though unheralded,

The joys of times desired

Beneath the silent tombstone lying dead :

If in this doom the mind

Some happiness can find.

Even sternest heart with pity must be fired.

Thou mother feared and wept
By mortal races from their earliest days,
Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise.
Who givest life in order to destroy !
If agony be kept

Alive by early and untimely death.
Why on the innocent thy wrath employ ?
And if it give relief,
Why of all woes the chief,
Why make the parting so disconsolate
To him who still draws breath,
To him whom Death's eternal realms await ?

156 Poems of Leopardi.

Unhappy where we gaze,
Unhappy where we turn or where we rest,
Are man's disastrous days !
It pleaseth JJiee_that^yoid
And utterly destroyed

Should be our youthful hope ; that seas of woe
Should part our years ; to evil only shield
Be Death ; and that which .we can never shun,
The law stern and supreme,
By thee is given us when our course is run.
Ah me I But after our laborious way
Why is, at least, the goal not fair and gay ?
Why her, who doth control
Our future, looming darkly in our soul.
Why her, who. is the balm
To these our days ne'er calm,
In sable robes array,
Involve in shadows grey ?
Why in our fancy form
The harbour more terrific than the storm ?

If this, indeed, be woe.
This death which thou dost keep
Impending o'er us all, whom, without guilt,

Poems of Leopardi. 157

Unconscious and unwilling, thou hast doomed
To live ; he who is wrapped in death's long sleep,
Should more our envy rouse,
Than he who liveth his beloved to weep.
If, as I firmly think.
Life is but misery

And death a mercy, yet whoever could
Desire, even as he should,
The fatal day of those to him most dear,
To find himself bereaved.
Disconsolate and grieved.
To see away from his deserted home
The cherished figure borne
That did for many years his life adorn ?
To utter an eternal fare-thee-well.
Without hope finding birth
To meet again on earth ;
Then lonely and abandoned in this world,
Gazing around in wonted time and scene.
To bear in mind the union that hath been ?
Ah I tell me. Nature, how hast thou the heart
From the embrace to rend
Of friend, the loving friend,
' From brother, brother dear.

158 Poems of Leopardi.

The offspring from the sire,

And love from love ; and bidding one expire,

Doom the survivor to existence dire ?

How could thy ruthless deed

Cause so much sorrow that the living bleed

In heart for love entombed ? But Nature's end.

On her mysterious way.

Is not to foster joy, or sorrow to allay.

Poems of Leopardi. 159

THE SETTING OF THE MOON.

As in the lonely night

0*er lakes and mountains bathed in silver light,

When zeyphr gaily plays.

And visions meet our gaze,

Strange forms that weave a power

In the nocturnal hour,

By distant shadows wrought

O'er hill and dale and gently flowing streams :

The Moon descends unto the sky's last verge

Behind the ridge of Alp or Appenine,

Or in the Tyrrhene sea her rays doth merge ;

And as she falls, no radiance more doth shine.

The shadows fade, and all

The world lies wrapped in one funereal pall ;

Bereaved the night remains ;

And singing in impassioned, mournful strains,

The wanderer salutes the last, faint ray

i6o Poems of Leopardi.

Of her who lit his way

With argent crescent in the spheres divine :

Even thus youth wanes and flies,
And every joyaunce dies,
And Hope expires, the reed whereon we leant
In happier days, ere every bliss was spent,
And ere our life obscure
And desolate became.
The weary wanderer gazes on the scene
Of sable hue that now doth intervene.
And vainly asketh why
So dire a path before him yet should lie ;
And as vmto his eye
The world appeareth changed,
He finds himself no more what he hath been.
But to the world and all its wayfi estranged.

Too happy and too gay
Our span of mortal life

Would seem unto the powers that rule above,
If youthfulness were to endure for aye.
Wherein a thousand sorrows yield one joy ;
Too gentle the decree
Whence all that liveth doomed to death we see.

i

Poems of Leopardi. i6i

Unless a gift were made,

When men have finished half of their long way,

Than death itself with greater terrors fraught ;

The worst of ills and the extreme of woe.

Old age was found by an unswerving doom.

Wherein desire doth glow,

Hope wanes and pales and dwindles down to nought,

The foimtains of delight are frozen and quelled.

The sorrowls greater, and all bliss withheld.

Ye mountains and ye plains.
When fall the rays that in the West adorn
With silvery trace the sable veil of night,
Ye shall not be forlorn

For many hours : the Eastern skies ere long
Ye shall perceive aglow
AVith break of day and early rise of morn.
Whom following, the Sun his fires doth show,
And blazing all around
In full «fiiilgence strong,
With seas of light invades
The space above and the terrestrial glades.
But life of man, when lovely youth is spent,
No other light hath found,

M

102 Poems of Leopardi.

Nor to existence other dawn is lent :
'Tis lonely and bereaved even to its close :
And to the night that weighs on later years,
By the decree of doom,
As goal is given the silence of the tomb.

y

Poems of Leopardi, 163

THE GENISTA

OR

THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.

" Men loved darkness rather than the light."

St. John hi., xix.

Here on the barren soil

Of Mount Vesuvius dread,

That fell destroyer stem

Who doth delight no other flower or tree,

Thy solitary blossoms thou dost spread.

Fragrant Genista sweet,

Rejoicing in the deserts. I beheld

Thy flowers adorn the lonely hills that stand

Around the city grandj

That was of yore the Empress of mankind,

And for the reign resigned,

They with their dvunb solemnity austere

Seem from the wanderer to claim a tear.

Now I again behold thee on this shore ;

LM

1 64 Poems of Leopardi.

Fond of sad haunts, abandoned by the world.
Companion of misfortune evermore.
These regions, sprinkled o'er
With showers of barren ashes and supplied
With lava petrified,

Resounding to the pilgrim as he treads :
Where we see twining in the sun the snake,
And where in caverns dark
The timorous hares their wonted refuge take :
Were happy homes, and fields.
Like those where harvest now its rich boon yields,.
Alive with lowing herds ;
They were palatial halls
And wondrous gardens, dear
Unto the great, and famous cities* walls :
All which the haughty mountain with the torrents
That from his fiery crater ruthless rolled,
Crushed, while their inmates were by death destroyed»
/Now ruin makes a void
Of all around where, beauteous flower, thou growest>
And as in pity for the scene of woe
Upon the air a perfume sweet bestowest, \

Consoling to the desert. To this shore
Let him proceed whose wont it is to praise

Poems of Leopardi, 165

Our earthly state, and let him see how much

Our race is held in care

By loving Nature. And he here as well

Can more exactly tell

How far extends the power of human kind,

Whom its harsh tyrant, when it least may fear.

With slight exertion can destroy in part,

And with a little more

Could in an instant wholly sweep away.

Annihilate, and slay.

Upon these shores are seen

Of our poor human race

** The splendid fortunes and progressive pace."*

Here gaze as on a mirror.
Thou age unwise and proud,
Who errest from the way
That rising thought illumined with its ray.
And as thy steps a backward course pursue,
Art glad of thy return.

Which seemeth progress to thy troubled view.
Thy folly by all minds
Whose evil destiny made thee their sire,

'*' Words of a modern writer to whom mil their elegance is due»
<Lreopardi's note.)

1 66 Poems of Leopardi,

Is pampered, even though

They, when unheeded, throw

Disdain on thee. Not I

Will so inglorious sink into my gra\

'Twere easy enough, I know.

For me to join the others in their wrong

And to thine ears melodious make my song :

But rather the disdain of thee that lies

Within my bosom deep,

I shall, as widely as I can, display.

Although neglect for those

Be held in store who much their age oppose.

This evil which I've borne

With thee in common, moved till now my scorn.

Fair freedom is the subject of thy dreams:

Yet thou enslavest thought.

By whom alone we're brought

From rudeness by degrees, by whom alone

Is culture fostered, who alone can send

The fate of nations to a better end.

So much didst thou in horror hold the truth

Of the harsh doom and dungeon-like abode

That Nature gave us. Therefore didst thou tum>

With craven soul, thy vision from the light

Poems of Leopardi. 167

That made it clear ; and in thy flight dost spurn

As vile who seek its rays,

And him alone dost praise,

Who, scornful of himself or of the rest.

Above the stars says man's degree is blest.

He, poor of state and suffering of frame,
Who has a generous and lofty soul,
Doth not the homage claim
That gold and strength procure,
Nor of a splendid life and figure proud
Maketh among the crowd
An empty show absurd ;
But not with treasures or with vigour blessed
He owns himself unfeigning, and is heard
In discourse to be candid on himself.
Still giving truth its due.
Unwise I hold his mind.
And not of loftier kind.
Who, born to perish and in sorrow bred,
•Says : ** I am made for joy ;"
And with unhallowed pride
The annals of himianity supplied,
Grand destinies and wondrous happiness.

1 68 Poems of Leopardi,

Which even to Heaven are strange, not to our globe

Alone, predicting here

To those whom stormy wave

Or breath of air malignant, or the shock

Of earthquake, so destroys

That Memory scarcely lingers o*er their grave.

A noble nature he

Who with a spirit free

Dares mortal eye to raise

Upon our common fate ; who with bold tongue,

Debarring nought from truth,

Owneth the evil Fortune bade prevail,

And our low state and frail ;

Who in affliction dire

Shows fortitude and lofty strength of soul.

Nor the fraternal hatred and the ire

So frequent on our earth, and worst of ills.

Unto his misery addeth by declaring

Man guilty of his woe, but casteth blame

On her alone who merits all the shame.

Who gives birth to mankind.

But all whose deeds we harsh and cruel find.

Her he calls hostile ; and considering men.

As truth itself declares.

Poems of Leopardi, 169

In union joined against her evil ways

By social bonds of old,

He as confederates doth all mortals hold

Among themselves, and all

With equal love surveys.

And giveth aid where 'tis desired and needed

In various peril and disastrous ways.

Beset by common warfare. And to raise

A vengeful hand for injuries of men.

Our neighbour to destroy.

So ill-advised he deems as on the field

Of battle, close surrounded by the foe,

When most the fight doth rage

Against our friends to wage

Disastrous war, oblivious of the rest,

And with pernicious sword

To spread dismay and slaughter 'mid their ranks.

When thoughts like these are made.

As once they were, unto the nations known.

By real knowledge in its influence vast ;

And the dread horror shown

That first 'gainst Nature bade

Our humankind in social chain unite :

Then shall the just, the honest and the right,

170 Poems of Leopardi,

And patriotic fire,

And mercy find a more enduring source
Than is supplied by haughty dreams and vain
That now the vulgar righteousness sustain,
Which proves itself even so
*As everjrthing that doth from error flow.

Full often on this shore,
Clad by the hardened flood
Of lava in a garment dark of hue
That seems to surge, I seat myself at night.
And shining on the saddened land, the stars
In plains of purest azure meet my view,
Reflected by the deep ;
And through the space serene in circles vast
The sparkling Heavens open on my sight.
And when my vision on those lights I cast.
That seem so small to be.
And are in truth so large
That by their side would shrivel land and sea
To nothingness ; to whom
Not humankind alone
Is utterly unknown,

* In these verses we perceive the germ of a vrhole system of ethics..

Poems of Leopardi, 171

But even this globe where man is less than nought ;

And when I gaze upon those clustering stars

In greater distance without any end,

Seeming to us like vapour, unto whom

Not merely man and not the earth he treads,

But all the stars, the neighbours of our world,

And even the golden radiance of the Sun,

Were never known, or else appear as they

Unto our sight, a spot

Of luminous mist : what then unto my though ^

Becomest thou, mankind ?

And when I bear in mind

Thy state below, whereof the signs are seen

Upon the soil I tread : and when I think

Thy pride doth call thee queen

And end of all, and how thou lovest oft

To fable that unto this grain obscure

Of wretched dust which bears the name of earth.

For love of thee, of universal things

The lords descended, and were known to dwell

Benignly in thy midst : and that the dreams

So idle even the present age renews,

Opprobrious to the wise, although it seems

In knowledge and in deed

172 Poems of Leopardi.

Superior to the past : what passion fires,
O hapless race of man, what thought inspires
For thee my heart ? In truth, I cannot say
If mockery or if pity beareth sway.

As from its tree a ripened apple falling, .
By Autumn's power, nought else,
Cast on the earth in full maturity.
Crushes and overwhelms
The populous abode of busy ants.
Destroying all their hoarded treasures vast,
The fruit of summer toil.
Which they had piled in those elaborate caves
Formed by their cunning in the yielding soil :
Even thus in dread and thundering fury cast
From the deep rumbling womb
Of yon destructive mountain in its ire,
Night and destruction in a cloud of ashes,
Of rocks and lurid fire.
Fall on the land devoted to its doom ;
And boiling torrents run
And down the mountain flow
With rapid wrath and all-consuming rage ;

Poems of Leopardi. 1 73

And o'er the verdure falls

A furious rush and grand

Of liquid metal and of fiery sand,

Such as o'erwhelmed the cities on the^shore,

And in an instant they were seen no more.

On their deserted site

We see the browzing goat,

And other cities we behold arise.

Beneath whose splendid domes

Full many a vast and ancient ruin lies ;

And even these lofty walls

The haughty mountain threatens and appals.

Nature no more doth hold

In tenderness and love

The race of man than insects of ^the^arth ;

And if we in mankind

May less destruction find,

'Tis that of offspring it has greater dearth.

One thousand and eight hundred years have passed
Since by the force of subterranean fire
The peopled cities found an end so dire ;
And still the peasant full of anxious fears

1 74 Poems of Leopardi,

For what he planted on the arid soil,

Amid the death-like ashes and the stones,

Suspicious turns his eye

To where he sees, aspiring to the sky.

The fatal peak, as cruel as of yore.

For ever threatening ruin to his home.

And oft at night, alarmed.

Lying for sleepless hours,

In terror listening to the wandering wind.

At last he rises and ascends his roof,

And gazes thence upon the dreaded course

Of boiling lava, rushing from the womb

Of the unexhausted mount,

O'er sandy ridge, and casting lurid light

On Capri's distant strand.

On Naples' bay and Mergellina's land.

He wakes his children and his trembling wife.

If he perceives it coming, or within

His household well heats seething waters boil ;

And with whatever they can snatch in haste,

Away they rush, and witness from afar

Their dwelling and their field,

From hunger and despair their only shield,

By the disastrous torrents soon laid waste,

Poems of Leopardi. 175

That fiercely rush and cruelly invade,

And lie for ever on the wreck they've made.

Even as a skeleton that from its grave

Is brought to light by piety or greed,

The dead Pompeii to the realms of day

From old oblivion doth again proceed :

And from the ruined Forum and the file

Of shattered columns tall,

The wanderer gazes on the cloven peak

And on the smoky crest,

Still threatening even the ruins in their fall

And in the horror of the secret night.

Among theatres empty and forlorn,

Among the mouldering temples and among

The shattered houses where the bat doth hide,

Like an ill-omened torch

In empty fanes and halls untenanted,

The terrors run of the funereal stream.

Which in the shade doth gleam

And tinges all around with fiery red.

Of man unconscious and of all the years

That he calls old, and offspring laid by sire,

Thus Nature stands in ever-blooming youth ;

Or rather, she proceeds

1 76 Poems of Leopardi.

Upon a path so long, a course so wide,
That to our eyes she never seems to move.
Meanwhile realms fall, and tongues and nations wane;
She seeth nought, and man doth still presume
Eternity to claim in haughty pride.

And thou, slow-spreading flower,
With many an odorous wood.
Who dost adorn these regions desolate ;
Thou too ere long shalt sink beneath the power
Of the unpitying subterranean fire,
Which will extend its ire.
Returning to the scene it knew of old.
Unto thy gentle forests, and beneath
The fatal weight thou wilt thy head incline.
Though innocent, without a murmuring waiU
But not till then in cowardice cast down
With supplication and imploring prayer
Before the future tyrant, but not raised
With frenzied pride unto the very stars.
Nor on the desert where
Thou hadst thy dwelling-place.
Not by thy will, by the decree of Fate :

Poems of Leopardi, 1 77

But wiser far, and less

Ill-starred than man, because thou didst not think.

Thy race endowed by Doom,

Or by thyself, with an immortal bloom.

FINIS.

N

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